


4am Knows All My Secrets

by NadezdhaNickolaeva



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - High School, Bipolar Disorder, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Character Death, Child Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Dubious Consent, Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Originally posted on fictionpress - Freeform, POV Second Person, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prostitution, Protective Steve Rogers, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Steve Rogers Feels, Teen Angst, Underage Drinking, based on an original work, mentions of eating disorders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 34
Words: 45,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6801211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadezdhaNickolaeva/pseuds/NadezdhaNickolaeva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You tell yourself you could stop all this at any point, you just don't feel like stopping yet. Bucky is losing the battle with addiction and depression whilst trying to navigate his feelings about his best friend. Surrounding himself with equally damaged and dangerous people he falls further and further down the rabbit hole, and it can't be long until he hits the bottom.</p>
<p>A/N based of an original work I posted on fictionpress.<br/>Pretty depressing so if you don't like angsty stuff, don't read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How will I Laugh Tomorrow?

**Author's Note:**

> There are some pretty graphic descriptions of drug use and like the effects of drugs so if you're not into that you probably won't like it.  
> So yeah, this is based on an original work I posted on fictionpress but I could see it working with Bucky and Steve so here it is. It's kind of British cause I know very little about American high schools or the American drugs scene and I'm pretty sure it's different over there but yeah this is pretty much typical of life in Britain (or Blackpool anyway, it might be different elsewhere, Blackpool is kinda known for being shit!!)  
> This is my first work so be nice and review please :)))  
> Oh and some things could be triggering so be careful!

Title from the Suicidal Tendencies song  
I don't have a beta so just tell me if there's any mistakes I missed :)

I

He smiles at you like you’re the flame in his sky, all sunshine and cotton candy and you think how you don’t deserve this, don’t deserve him. His eyes trace every line of your face, searching. He’s yet to realise he’s only searching the plastic lines of your mask. You always wanted to be an actor and now here is your chance, you have the role of a lifetime. Yourself. And you’re going to play it so well he’ll never even notice.  
You turn away to ‘get him a drink’ slipping into the crowd and upstairs. You’ve never felt more alone.  
The bathroom is crowded but you find a spot perched on the edge of the tub and accept the phone and note someone passes you.  
Tony, you think. You don’t know what the white powder is but you’re not bothered. It’s the feeling of being fucked that you’re into, not a particular drug. Though you do have preferences.  
You tilt your head back after snorting the first line, feeling the burning, stinging sensation in your nose, then go down for the next three.  
You wipe your finger on the phone screen before gumming it and handing it back to Tony. The bitter taste makes you grimace and fills your throat as you sniff. MD then. You drop a £5 note into Tony’s hand (not that he needs it, he's loaded, but you hate owing anyone anything) and stand up. Down the stairs. Into the kitchen. You grab 2 beers from the back of the fridge and push past people sheering about pizza and emptying bottles of apple vodka and cheap wine. Empty bottles of whiskey and, bizarrely, milk litter the table and the floor.  
Steve smiles at you when he sees you approach and reaches for the can.  
“Took you ages!” he slurs slightly, smiling and tipsy and happy.  
“Not much left, had to hunt.” You lie fluently. And you don’t feel bad, how can you when everything is just so good?  
You reach out and grab him, wrapping your arms around him and breathing in his musky, sweaty scent and think how truly beautiful he is.  
He laughs and pushes himself off you.  
“How many of these have you had?” he asks, reaching for your beer.  
You let him take it, you don’t need alcohol, don’t even particularly want it. You realise how surprised he is at you lack of protest. You’re known for always drinking a little too much, for never knowing when to stop, and isn’t that true? And you’re an actor, so you make a noise of protest and reach clumsily for the can, whining and making your eyes wide and pleading. He hands it back, rolling his eyes and telling you last one, no more. Suure. You drag it out, making it believable, and spin him around, giving yourself access to the staircase; you heard someone shouting about a 12 inch joint and want to get in on it.  
He doesn’t suspect as you tell him, bathroom. He is soon absorbed in a conversation with a leggy red head, Natasha, you realise. You would normally feel jealous, feel wrong. Drugs aren’t your only sin, the way you look at him, his eyes, his lips…but not tonight. You love everyone tonight. LOVE. It’s a word you’ve always hated just throwing around but nights like this deserve it. You feel sorry for those who have never gotten to feel like this. True love, of everything and everyone. You smile loose and easy, quicksilver flashes at everyone you pass as you slip into the bathroom. Cheers rise up and you flop into the bathtub, accepting loose hugs and sloppy, uncoordinated kisses offered by familiar face that you can’t really name. Ping someone shouts, Pong you reply, and accept the spliff in its blueberry skin. It’s strong stuff. Blue cheese probably. It fills your lungs and you can taste the high before it hits you.  
A girl pushes through the door, empty bottle of whiskey in her hand and runs to the toilet, retches, vomits. And you’re glad you’re not drunk. It can’t even compare. If you were drunk you’d be her, hovering over the toilet with foul tasting spit dripping from chapped lips. As it is you’re here. You’re happy. Electric.  
You offer the girl the J, that’s how you got introduced, curled over the porcelain seat, half asleep. Tony had dragged you up and offered you a line of speed, a pick-me-up. You’d had a few joints before, at that point you didn’t care what you took as long as it screwed your head back on straight.  
The girl ignores your outstretched hand and turns again to vomit into the toilet. You pass the joint to Clint with a shrug. You don’t care. About anything. Sheeit. You say as you lean back.  
The smoke fills the room and you suddenly want to be outside, with the stars. You push yourself up and saunter out of the room. No one cares. About anything. They’re all too focused on the joint. On the landing Loki (Thor's weird, but cool and totally fucked younger brother) offers you a bomb of Molly. You take it.  
The music pulses inside of you and your eyes feel impossibly wide as you descend the stairs. It feels like your floating down them at the speed of light. You’re surprised you don’t fall over. You’re gurning like hell.  
You throw your arms over two guys converged by the door to the lounge, Sam and Thor, you think. You don’t care what they’re saying. Steve is with them. With you. Your eyes connect and he smiles at you. You gaze into his deep blue orbs and have to pull yourself up before you drown in them. For a moment you wonder if he loves you like you love him, if that smile means he wants you like you want him, but then you remember that he can’t. He is pure.  
As you lean into the gut next to you, rolling you neck, the group laughs. They all know except Steve, because he is pure. And he doesn’t want to know.  
You feel eyes on you and turn around. Loki is staring at you hungrily. His boyfriend is passed out on an armchair behind him, draped over it and drooling. You break away from the group unthinkingly. Steve watches you as you go, grabbing Loki and pulling him into some kid’s bedroom. You can tell he's judging you, he can finally see how dirty you are. But you want him too. You need him to know so he doesn't get too close. Loki is tainted, like you, you don't want him, but he's what you deserve.  
He hands you a small bag of orange superman pills; your reward. You pocket them and slip out of your baggy T-shirt, converse, leather pants, boxers. He pushed you into the bed and kissed you hard, bruising. He sinks his teeth into your think bottom lip. His hands trace your naked body and every touch sets you alight. Your whole body tingles and each of his trailing kisses makes you shudder. You should hate yourself for loving it but the drugs running through your system make you sensitive and you really can't bring yourself to make him stop. You want those pills anyway. You think you've got a pretty good deal.  
You look over to the closed door and see deep blue eye staring at you right through the woodwork. You turn away.  
   
You wake up with dried sperm sticking to your legs and swollen lips, bite-marks trailing down your neck and chest.  
This should be upsetting but there is a clear plastic baggie of pills in your jeans so you are happy.  
You think maybe you would like to get some acid today. You can trade Clint 3 pills for 3 tabs. You can’t have the pills today anyway. Fucking tolerance. You could feel happy everyday if it weren’t for that. Money isn’t too much of a barrier. You’re already dirty, fucking a guy for pills wouldn’t exactly degrade you further.  
You get up and head to the bathroom where you step over bodies on your way to the sink. You’re only wearing your boxers but no one else seems to be awake. You grab a cloth and wipe away the sticky, white substance before splashing your face and grapping a ½ empty bottle of whiskey from the bath.  
Back in the room you dress quietly. Loki still snoozes on the bed. Clint and Natasha are curled up on the floor under a rug.  
The kitchen is empty and there is no milk left so you pour orange juice over a cup of cheerios and down it.  
There’s a grinder on the side with some bud left in it so you pocket it before leaving.  
As you grab someone’s black hoodie from the dog bed you notice Steve asleep on the sofa in the room opposite. Some blonde girl, maybe Sharon, is tip to toe with him, an empty bottle of cheap wine in her arms. It hurts physically, you almost want to throw up, but you can convince yourself that’s the comedown. You grab someone’s green plastic bong from the window ledge, there’s still something in it so you don’t need to rack it, pulling a lighter from your pocket.  
About 3 minutes later you realise you’re smoking synth and hope you don’t have a seizure but you don’t stop until you notice Steve stirring. Then you drop the bong on the table and drain the last of the whiskey before leaving, His eyes follow you as you shut the door.  
He doesn’t call you back. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to speak to you.  
The synth makes you feel weird and twitchy; your legs are so heavy you can hardly move. But it’s better than an MD comedown. You check you phone. It’s 11:42 and you have 7% battery. Your Dad won’t be awake for roughly 18 minutes. It takes 10 to walk home so you’ll be back before then. You quicken your pace anyway just in case.  
You tell yourself you could stop all this at any point, you just don’t feel like stopping yet.


	2. Birds Just Fly Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to publish this so soon but I've had a shit day and figured it might cheer me up.  
> Warning for slight mentions of eating disorders and descriptions of child abuse.

II

Your Dad is passed out, face first on the table with his cheek pressed into a pool of beer and drool.  
A few of his good-for-nothing mates are next to him, one has his face in a bowl of Doritos. Another farts noisily in his sleep.  
You grab a bin bag and begin to pick up the empty beer bottles and crisp packets.  
You toss the bag by the door and shut yourself in your room.  
Your bed creaks and groans as you sit on it. You have work in 4 hours and nothing to kill the time until then except some speed tucked under your mattress. About 150 mg.   
You figure you can take it all and still appear relatively sober.  
It might even motivate you to tidy your room.  
You pull it out and start racking lines on your phone. You find a €5 note in your drawer and roll it up. Speed doesn’t taste anywhere near as bad as MD but you still open up a warm can of beer to wash it down.  
You hear a shuffle from the other room and quickly gum the card before stuffing the baggie in your pocket and grabbing a book. If you look like you’re studying, he might leave you alone. Or not.  
The door groans open and his wide from leans against the frame. What you doin’? He asks. His T-shirt is pulled tight over his belly and is covered with spaghettis stains, ash and sweat marks and his hair is greasy and untamed. Nothing, you answer. Nothing at all.  
He scowls. You lyin’ to me boy? Got something to hide?  
You shake your head, and sniff in spite of yourself. He takes a step closer and glances down at your textbook. You stand up, defensive, ready.  
You don’t do maths anymore, he tells you, and you gulp, trying to meet his eyes, trying to come up with an excuse.  
It’s for a friend, you say casually.   
Yeah right, he scoffs, and steps forward again.  
He’s still drunk, and tired and grouchy.  
I’m going out. You tell him, pushing past him into the kitchen.  
No you bloody well are not! He shouts, stumbling after you.  
You turn around to reply, but he’s closer than you expected. His meaty hands shove you backwards sending you tumbling into the fridge, the force causing your neck to crack back.  
You’ll do what I tell you to do! He shouts. I’m the King of this house, you hear me? I’m the king.  
His spit hits you in the face and you scowl. Bad move. He raises his hand and backhands you across the face with the satisfying sound and sharp sting of flesh on flesh. His ring cuts your cheek and instinctively you raise your hand to grab it. He catches your wrist and slams it against the fridge door, moving in closer. You can feel his warm, stale breath in your ear.  
Don’t ever try to leave without my permission again. He whispers.  
No sir. You reply.   
He squeezes your wrist tighter and then lets go, walking over to the table. You sigh, relieved, and pull your shirt straight, pushing yourself off the fridge. Your Dad’s friends are staring awkwardly and intensely at the TV. You roll your eyes and, just like that, his fist connects with your chin. You stumble sideways, blinking dazedly.  
He doesn’t acknowledge you, grabbing a beer and flopping down heavily on the sofa.  
You stand for a second, not moving, before coming to your sense and walking quickly into your room.  
Your Dad is smirking as you walk past him, your head bowed.  
You close the door and slide down it to the floor. The sound of a football match can be heard on the TV.  
You tap your foot on the floor, restless but with nothing to do. You don’t own enough stuff for your room to be a tip, though there are filters, sheets of paper and boxers all over the floor. You could tidy but you don’t really want to anymore. You pull out your phone and open up just about every app, then close it again. You get up and walk around the room, flip through textbooks, open every app again. All of this takes you roughly 10 minutes. You have 3 hours until you need to set off for work.  
The speed just makes you even more restless. You want to talk to someone, specifically to Steve, but you can’t imagine he wants to talk to you. Not after last night. He would have guessed what you did with Loki, and he’s probably pissed. He probably thinks your disgusting.  
You stare blankly at your phone.  
The only thing the speed motivates you to do is read multiple drug articles on the internet and tap your leg incessantly to the beat of a fast paced drum and bass song.  
The pent up energy inside you makes you feel like you could burst open and you find yourself tapping your pen loudly, typing out comments to articles at a faster pace than you knew you could think, let alone type.  
Time passes in a flurry of rapid movements and even more rapid thoughts.  
You’re bouncing involuntarily in your chair.  
The clock hands have spun quickly around the clock, the hours bleeding and melting together as you rush around the internet, standing up for gays, druggies, refugees in a mess of angry comments and incoherent thoughts.  
If you had the money you know you would definitely be a speed freak, using the drug to push you through the grit and grime of everyday life.  
As you get up to get ready for work you feel uncomfortably sick. You know it’s because your liver can’t cope with all the shit you put in your body, and you haven’t eaten for a few days. You should eat at least something but your stomach feels weirdly full yet hollow; as if it has sealed itself up like rock and will not allow you to put anything in it. That’s good. You don’t want to eat, but you don’t often seem to have the will power anymore to starve yourself. If it wasn’t for the speed you know you wouldn’t have the energy to get through the shift. It’s a vicious cycle really, you have to take a drug to cope with the comedown of another drug. MD for a good time, weed (or in this case synth) to deal with the MD come down, speed to sober yourself up from the weed and motivate you, and later some Xanax to get you to sleep. Drugs on top of drugs on top of drugs on top of drugs.  
Druggies like to pretend the whole gateway drug theory in bullshit, and in some ways it is, but weed is most people’s first step.  
For some it was always going to progress. Some people are just wired that way, and nothing they are told by the police, parents or posters will make them change their minds. Some people would never dream of going any further than weed, and an offer from a dealer or a friend isn’t going to change that.  
But there are those stoners who become immersed in the drug culture through weed and find themselves seeing other people’s experiences and becoming more and more envious of the amazing times they’re having, and become more and more desperate to try it. And once you’ve had one good experience, with one drug, you don’t see what is so bad after all. And before you know it you’ve lost your footing and you’re falling, falling down the rabbit hole.


	3. Desparate but not Serious

You realise how truly pathetic you are at 4am, sitting on your bed with a notebook and your wage surrounding you, budgeting your drug use for the rest of the month.  
You have £280 + £15 in tips. 4 weekends with either 3 tabs or 3 pills = £120 + 2g of speed = £30 + a 20 of weed per week = £80. That all comes to £230. Then bacci, skins and filters = £40. That leaves £10 for food and any extra shit, and with the speed you won’t need that much. But still, only £10 left to eat. For a month. Fuck. This is why people turn to prostitution.   
The extra £15 is set aside for Leeds fest, you could plausibly break into that if it becomes essential but you really want to go. It’ll be sick. You’ve been saving up all years so it would be a shame to give up now.  
You wonder when you started spending so much money on drugs, and how you’re ever going to afford to live on your own.

 

*****************  
In just a weeks’ time you’ve spent you’ve spent the £10 you saved for food. You were right that the speed makes you less hungry but you failed to factor in the munchies until you realised you’d spent £8 over two days. That means your only option is to take speed almost every day and spend the last £2 on loads of 13p pot noodles from Aldi or break into your Leeds fund and pick up an extra shift at work. You do 3 a week but could probably manage another one.  
You hate being broke, hate counting pennies to buy crisps so you can at least eat something that week. You hate the excitement that you feel when you see change on the ground.  
Your phone buzzes and you realise it’s Steve asking if you want to meet up at McDonalds. You swear under your breath.  
You’d assumed he was mad at you for fucking Loki like the dirty little whore you are, and you hadn’t really thought about him since then.  
You feel bad momentarily; Steve has been your best friend since you were 9 years old, and you’ve been in love with him since year 8.  
Not that he knows, of course. But now drugs have taken over your life to such an extent that you are abandoning the person who means the most to you. The only person who has ever mattered.  
You type out a hasty reply; you’ll come but you had to lend your Dad money so you’re completely broke, you’ll just have to bring a sandwich, yeah?  
Steve offers to lend you a fiver but you refuse, you know if you take it you won’t pay him back and you don’t want to get into that with him.   
You glance at the empty beer cans around your room and hope Steve doesn’t notice you are both high, and slightly drunk. The benefit of having a farther who is an alcoholic; there is always alcohol, and he always assumes he drank it all.   
You collect up the cans, tossing them onto the sofa in the living room and grab your jacket. You’ll tell your Dad you had a summer session in college, about uni or something.  
You leave him a note so he doesn’t get too wound up whilst you’re gone.   
There’s no bread or cheese in the house so there goes the sandwich idea. You’re limited to either a rotten tomato, some cream cheese that smells questionable, or an open tin of meatballs probably made of horse meat.  
You settle for filling yourself up on another can of Budweiser, sticking one in your jacket pocket for later.  
You can always steal some of Steve’s chips.   
Your seventh beer can be blamed for your accidental slide down the last three steps to the door of the flats; the lift has been broken for the past three years you’ve lived here and is now frequented by the homeless and drunk youths who don’t want Mum to catch them in that state. Consequently, it stinks of piss and vomit no matter how often the old women from the 3rd floor scrubs it. 

***********  
Steve gives you one of his trademark sideways smiles as you sit down opposite him in the back corner of McDonalds. It makes your chest tighten. You want to cry or scream at him because you don’t understand how he can’t see how dirty you are. You’re not meant for smiles; you’re meant for black eyes, cheap vodka and meaningless blowjobs.  
You reach out and steal a chip.  
You’re both walking towards the park when you decide to open the beer. The lid opens with a hiss. And Steve looks over, pushing his brown fridge out of his big blues eyes. You hold it out to him and he takes it, sipping deeply before passing it back to you and you continue walking down the streets in silence, passing it back and forth between you.  
It’s not exactly a comfortable silence, and you feel a slight sense of relief when you wonder if he has finally seen how worthless you are.  
But you still can’t help but ask, after all it’s not always about you.  
‘What’s wrong?’ if your words are slightly slurred you ignore it.  
He looks at you sideways, and then turns away with a scowl, kicking at the ground.  
‘Stevie?’  
He turns to you, stopping. You stop too, facing each other, breathing, watching, reading.  
‘You’re drunk’ he accuses ‘Or high, or something.’ You open your moth to protest but he continues. ‘And you – listen to me you twat – and you have been since February.’   
You don’t even try to deny it, you just nod, head too fuzzy to think up a good excuse.  
Steve continues to look at you and you realise he expects you to say something.  
You nod again, ‘Yeah’ you whisper, and your voice crack.  
‘I’m sorry’ you mutter ‘I’m sorry’, over and over again.  
He pulls you into a hug ‘It’s okay’ he whispers to you ‘It’s gonna be okay.’  
‘I’ll stop now’ you say, and he tightens his grip. You rest your head on his shoulder and wonder who you’ll have to blow to get your hands (or nose) on some ket tonight.


	4. Cognitive Suicide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Americans when it says they're in college in Britain that means they're like 17 at this point. Also if you don't have MXE over there it's rhino ket, basically ketamine (as in the horse tranquiliser) but like stronger.  
> So yeah, enjoy :)

IV

You end up blowing Loki in the bathroom at the bus station for 100mg of MXE.  
You’re on your knees on the filthy floor, chewing gum stuck to your knees. He grabs your long, dark, greasy hair and pulls you toward his crotch, calling you a bitch, a slut, a whore.  
You let him, it doesn’t mean anything coming from him. Nothing really means anything anymore.  
You head down to the park, it's a great place to get high and no one'll be around at this time of night.  
You rack the lines carefully on your phone screen, cutting them with your debit card.  
They have to be neat, you like them to be neat.  
You make 4 lines, long and thin.  
Loki is doing the same thing opposite you, you watch him gum his card, grimacing.  
Neither of you have a note but you find a piece of paper, post-it sized, in his rucksack and roll it up tightly.  
You bend down towards your phone, Loki holding it up for you so you can place one hand round the paper and the other over your left nostril. You snort your first line and then tip your head back, sniffing deeply, before bending down to repeat the process.  
You snort the last line, grimacing as you taste it in the back of your throat. You grab Loki’s cider and take a gulp, you pass him the paper and he re-rolls it neatly.  
You mop up the phone screen with your finger, gumming it.  
It doesn’t taste good but it’s a hell of a lot better than MD.   
You hold Loki’s phone up for him as he snorts his lines.  
You and Loki are more drug buddies than friends. You wouldn’t hang out with each other at college, but you know you’re both pretty much up for anything, wherever, whenever.  
Even though you don’t always talk, or sometimes even acknowledge each other, it is always better to use with someone else. For some reason it makes you feel safer, even if you’re both equally and totally fucked.  
You lean back against the slide, grimacing again as you swallow, still tasting the powder slightly.  
It’s cold, even though it’s summer. You hate this part, the waiting for it to kick in. There is always the slight feeling of dread that it won’t work. You sigh and pull out your phone, then ignore it, staring at the sky.  
You spend the rest of the night in a daze in the park. A ket bubble, as you think of it. You’re not cold, you’re above everything, watching yourself. You look stupid from up above, drifting through life, half the time wishing you could put a bullet in your head, the other half too fucked to even hold a gun.  
That’s what you love most about ket; it never fails to get you out of your head.  
You and Loki are on different axis, circling around each other but not really passing, you both need the company but neither of you wants to talk. You just listen to the music playing through the portable speaker and let it float around you and caress you.  
You feel like you are moving in slow motion; things flash and slicker in the corner of your eye but you’re focused on the way your legs move slowly. You feel like you’re on the moon, you floated to the other side of the park without really meaning to. You sit down on a bench and it slopes sideways, you think you might fall down it and get swallowed up by the ground.  
A fag is rolling in your lap and you have no idea who is doing it. It takes a minute for you to realise that it’s you. You stare up at the stars and laugh, it comes out as a deep booming sound. It feels like the air is vibrating. You swear you can see the sound waves in front of you.  
The sound seems to continue roaring in your head long after you stop laughing.  
You fall onto your back, limbs feeling heavy.  
As you lie staring upwards you wonder if you are underwater; everything is distorted ad misty, and the sounds all seem distant and far away.  
As you look over you see a woman, her skin is a deep blue and patterned with stars. She stands, naked, watching.  
‘Who are you?’ she asks. You can’t reply, you don’t know anymore. You stare into her eyes and she melts away, her body sloshing over you like a wave.  
A butterfly floats down and lands on your stomach. It whispers softly in a language you don’t understand.  
It flies upwards and grows in the air, covering you, blocking out the stars. You ask it to move but it doesn’t, and for a moment you wonder if everything is going to go wrong, but it doesn’t. The relaxation flows through you again.  
Loki glides past you, you’d forgotten he was here.  
He turns around to face you, his face twisting 180 degrees.  
He waves slowly, his hand leaving trails in the air. You copy his movement before returning your gaze to the butterfly, but it is gone, leaving you with only the wide expanse of sky up ahead.  
You think maybe you are in a sci-fi movie, and smile for the camera.  
You roll of the bench and onto the floor, suspended momentarily in the air before you hit the concrete.  
Numbness spreads from your nostrils and your gums throughout your body. You smile up at the moon and your lips vibrate pleasantly.  
You close your eyes and allow yourself just to feel.


	5. Boot Stamping on a Human Face Forever

Boot Stamping On a Human Face Forever

 

You wake up to bright sunlight and disapproving frowns. You’re on your back on the concrete floor of the playground, Loki is nowhere to be seen and parents are scowling at you, pulling their kids away. You want to tell them that it’s useless. They live in Blackpool; their kids will end up fucked no matter what they do. The kid in the red coat will be bulimic, the one in the green coat will be an alcoholic, the one in the Peppa Pig coat will be a drug addict, and the one with the dinosaur jacket will kill himself.  
Their minds will inevitably decay with their bodies, and their hearts will inevitably die. That’s what happens when you grow up.  
You pull yourself up, staggering slightly and rub your eyes, ignoring the glares.  
You high-tail it out of the park before anyone calls the police on you.  
You’re freezing and hungry and stiff. You want a thicker jacket, some food and water and a proper bed, but mostly you want a joint and a beer.  
You settle for rolling yourself a fag instead. It’s a loose, shitty roll but it’s smokeable and that’s the best you could really hope for given the state you’re in.  
You don’t go home straight away, you spend the next few hours wondering round town with no money and nothing to do. Anything is better than being at home. It’s fairly sunny so it’s not as if you need to be inside. You wonder down South Shore and eventually end up sitting under the pier, surrounded by fag butts, empty crisp packets and used needles.  
Some dog walkers shuffle past you but pay you no mind, probably assuming you’re some junkie or runaway.  
It’s pretty windy, and the sun doesn’t get to you here so within 15 minutes your uncomfortably cold. You’d kill for a hot drink or some chips. £1, that’s all you need.  
You eventually pull yourself up and head out to the main street. You walk through town until you arrive at the big Sainsbury’s. It’s like 5 stories high and no one notices you slip a can of beer and a packet of cooked chicken in your oversized hoodie’s large front pocket. Normally you’d buy something cheap to make it less suspicious but it’s busy enough that you’ll get away with it, and besides you don’t have the money anyway.  
You eat it on a bench on the promenade, surrounded by the sounds of squealing children on the shitty pier rides. The street in lined with arcades where fat drunks spend their days gambling whilst their kids play air hockey without having put the money in, or go around kicking machines to get out 10p coins for sweets. The occasional Lytham kid will get to ride a donkey but the more upmarket kind tend to avoid Blackpool. It’s the UKs dumping ground for the scum of the world. They learnt in college that the town boasts some of the highest rates of drug and alcohol misuse in the country as well as nearly topping the list for violent crime, teenage pregnancies and smoking.  
So yeah, it’s not exactly the Cotswolds but it’s perfect for you. It’s cheap, full of drugs and no one asks questions if you collapse in a K hole in the middle of the day on the beach or gallop through the arcade laughing like your insane and tripping balls on loads of acid. No one asks questions cause no one wants to know, and no one really cares. Everyone is more absorbed with surviving day to day.  
Your joined on the bench by a homeless drunk wrapped in a sleeping bag and make casual, disjointed conversation whilst you drink your beer.  
He offers you is bottle of whiskey and you don’t hesitate to take it, you’ll probably get hep C but you’ll be dead before anyone realises anyway so it’s not a big deal.  
Your mum had always said that whiskey is the drink of mad men, but then she was insane and went to jail so what did she know?  
You wonder what she would think of you now. She probably wouldn’t be surprised.  
Even your Dad stopped visiting her after awhile, there was no point when she didn't even recognise them most of the time. Now you would never get the chance to visit her.  
You take another great gulp of the whiskey. It burns your throat and leaves a foul taste in your mouth but your used to that, even if you prefer vodka.  
It’s cheap and shitty, the kind bought for £5 from Bargain Booze. Even if you could afford it you can’t imagine you’d buy the expensive stuff, what’s the point when it all tastes like shit anyway?  
You chat to the guy a while longer, not wanting to leave after drinking half his whiskey. But you feel the comfortable haziness of the alcohol and it gives you the courage to head home. You want the weed from the back of your wardrobe anyway.  
By the time you get home your Dad is already drunk, and completely furious. You realise you forgot to tell him you were staying out all night and consequently have to face his wrath.  
You let his words wash over you; useless, waste of space, fucking lazy ass motherfucker, better off dead. None of it means anything. He’s probably right but at this point you don’t give a shit. You’ve gotten used to the idea that you’re never going to amount to anything and have become desensitized to the whole ‘you’re going to end up dead in a gutter’ speech.  
You brace yourself for the punch to the face, keeping you balance. Your lip stings and you feel blood run down your face like melted butter. You don’t react, let him get on with it. He’ll stop when he’s ready to, and after that there is no point asking why. You just don’t argue, you let it happen. It’ll always be this way because really you deserve it.  
He shoves you and lands a hard punch to your stomach that you don’t bother blocking. You double over, trying to catch your breath. It’s your fault he’s telling you, you’re the reason your mother is ill. You made her like this. It should have been you. Why wasn’t it you? She doesn’t deserve this.  
And you feel almost sorry for him. He sounds so desperate, so sad. But you know he never really cared about her until she was gone. You wonder if it’ll be the same with you. You’ll die and he’ll regret everything, he’ll be sad. Maybe he will miss you.  
You’re on your knees now. It feels kind of symbolic as he stands over you. He doesn’t stop. You hate it when he gets like this. He’s a whirlwind of anger and violence. He kicks you in the stomach and you double over again, but he doesn’t care. He carries on kicking and kicking.  
Your winded, every breath hurts and you can’t seem to get enough oxygen. He drags you by the hair and your arm across the kitchen floor. Your legs flail on instinct as you try to find your footing.  
You’re by the sink by the time you do. He pushes your head down so your nose is just touching the water. It’s cold and dirty, weeks old and filled with an ever mounting stack of plates and cutlery. It smells foul and bits of food float on the surface. You notice all this in the seconds before he dunks your head under, holding it down as you thrash and squirm.  
He pulls you back up, and you gasp for breath coughing up dirty dishwater. Pathetic. He tells you.  
17 years old and you still squirm like a toddler. You whimper as he pulls your hair tighter, still reeling from the lack of oxygen.  
He throws you backwards, and you brace yourself with your hands before your head smack the floor, hair dripping and still spluttering. He spits on the floor next to you, shaking his head. He is still angry, but you can tell he is tired. He’s fed up of dealing with you.  
You remain on the floor until long after you hear the front door slam, no energy left to pull yourself up.  
It’s only the thought of the joint you already have rolled in your bedroom that gives you the strength to get up.  
The floor is wet, and there’s a thin trail of blood, but you’ll deal with that later.  
You spit into the sink, and gargle with tap water, trying to rid your mouth of the foul taste of blood mixed with dirty water.  
Your body aches and you can feel the bruises developing on you face and torso. You wonder, not for the first time, whether it would be better to just leave, sleep on sofas and in abandoned buildings. But you’re scared. You’re a coward, you know that, you’ve slept in the streets before but you’ve never had the guts to fully move out. Just one year left of college, you tell yourself, and then you can go. You don’t know how you’re ever going to afford living on your own, but you suppose you could always deal. And besides, staying here isn’t an option.  
You lower yourself gently onto the bed, joint in your hand, and lean back against your pillows. The window is open, but the smell doesn’t last too long and your Dad won’t be back for hours. You pull a lighter out of your pocket and spark up the joint, closing your eyes in relief as you take the first toke.  
A baby cries somewhere in the building. An ambulance flies past outside.  
You put your ‘getting high’ playlist on Spotify and just focus on the joint. You better hope you don’t get the munchies because there is no food in the house, and your pretty sure your lip will soon be too swollen for eating to be comfortable.  
You flop back so your lying flat, staring up at the ceiling, at the cracks like constellations and the little glow in the dark stars that were stuck up there when you arrived. You wonder about the kid this room once belonged to, where are they now? Somewhere less shitty hopefully.  
You’re smoking roach now so you stub the joint out on your T-shirt and flick it under the bed.  
There’s no point being tidy when your living in a dump like this.  
The baby is still crying.  
It makes you feel sick.


	6. Born Trippy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An acid trip, that's it really

You swap 3 pills for 3 tabs with Ash, like you wanted, and he has a free house for the night so agrees to let you take them there. You drop them at around 4 and settle in on his sofa with them in your mouth. It takes around half an hour for them to dissolve, and another 10/15 minutes for them to kick in, but when it does it’s magical. Acid is one on the best drugs out there, and one of the safest if you get legit stuff. The experience is kind of indescribable. Words just can’t fully capture the way it changes your brain. It is as if it opens up new pathways and section of your brain that otherwise remain closed, and once you’ve stopped tripping they close up again and leave you unable to comprehend what you just experienced.  
The walls seem to ripple and shake, and you can’t stop laughing. You feel so, so weird.   
You wave your hand in the air in front of you and watch the trails your fingers leave behind. God you feel weird.  
You look over at Ash and he looks like a puppet from kid’s TV. You think he might be made of felt.  
You wander through the house transfixed by the patterns and shapes that appear on the walls. You can see loads of triangles popping in and out of existence, expanding, shrinking and melting.  
You feel like you haven’t stopped laughing since you dropped and it kind of hurts your chest.  
You are in the bathroom smoking some synth but you’re not sure if it’s working. You look up into the mirror and your face melts right in front of you.  
Shit. You say. Shit.  
You want to go outside, want to see the stars. You open the door and start to walk down the street. There’s loads of shit in front of your eyes that makes it hard to see. Car lights zoom past you but you can’t decide whether they’re real or not. They look like faces. Leering at you, teasing you.   
You look up at the sky and it’s dizzying, you can see the constellations swirling; you never realised there were so many stars.   
You stand for a minute gazing at them, lost in their wide expanse of light and colour. They wink at you and you wink back.  
You realise you are walking again, tripping over your own feet as you keep your eyes fixed on the stars. You’re not wearing any shoes but it doesn’t bother you.  
You end up on the prom, not really sure how you got there, you can’t remember the way back even though you have lived there your entire life. Funny Girls club shines like a beacon up ahead. The lights have come away from the sign and are pulsing and dancing in front of you. People crown outside but you don’t go in, you don’t want to lose the sky.  
One of the lights snarls at you and you wonder if they’re alive.  
Hi. Someone says. It is Carly, you dated her when you were 13. You got with her behind the bike shed in high school.   
You laugh and say Hi.  
You alright? She asks, awkwardly.  
Yeah. You tell her. I’m just on loads of acid.  
She seems surprised and as she raises her eyebrows they crawl off the top of her head.   
You carry on laughing.  
You do acid? She asks.  
You just nod and don’t stop laughing.  
You feel like there is someone you want to see tonight but you have no idea who. You pull a straight out from your pocket, they’re Ashley’s but he won’t notice. You can’t roll anyway, you tried earlier but you kept seeing ladybirds in front of your eyes so it was impossible.  
Nothing that anyone is saying makes any sense to you. It all sounds really clever and complicated. You recognise that they are real words but they don’t seem to fit together as legitimate sentences.  
You try to lean against the wall but your depth perception is all off, sending you tumbling backwards.  
Someone moves out of the way and you hit the floor with a thump.  
Carly and her friends move away, glancing at you over their shoulders at you.  
As you sit there on the floor, watching the bricks of the wall rearrange themselves like the entrance to Diagon Alley, you begin to wonder where you came from.  
Where do you live? You think maybe in a burrow or a box but you can’t quite work it out. Why do people live in boxes? It’s more fun outside. You don’t understand why people have to pay to live in boxes.  
And why do people have to pay for water? Isn’t it like necessary for life? If you can’t afford water you’ll just die, wouldn’t more people live if it were free?  
Come to think of it how do you afford water? Who pays for the water you drink? Do you have parents?  
You remember your Dad but it doesn’t quite add up. How do you know he is your Dad? Is he even real?  
He doesn’t seem real, you can’t imagine him existing somewhere else, can’t imagine anyone existing other than you. Your mind is a great twisted mess of colours and pictures and shapes and it is leaking out of your head, and you can’t imagine that anyone else has one of these things too.  
Have you ever been normal? Was there life before this experience or have you just popped into existence tonight? And how did you do that?  
Nothing really makes sense and it terrifies you. You feel yourself begin to panic and close your eyes. Let it take you, you think. Just go with it.  
Do you exist though? No one is here observing you so what is the point of you existing? You may as well just fade away into nothingness.  
You pull yourself up, trying to stay calm, but you really don’t know how to answer any of these questions. You need to get back but you don’t know where to or how to get there.   
You’re never going to go back to normal again, and you’re never going to find a way out of here.  
You’re going to die because you will never be able to afford water. You can’t get a job like this.  
You enter one of the amusement arcades on the prom but it is not comforting. You are inside now which feels better, but you’ve lost the sky. And you feel like you will get into trouble for being here, you don’t know why but you will.  
There is a little castle in the corner for kids to ride and you squash yourself in.  
Once inside though things shift and you realise you are in a totally different universe. You can see the door so you know you can get out but whilst you re inside there nothing outside exists.  
It’s amazing and scary both at the same time.  
By the time you crawl out you don’t know how much time has passed. It felt like seconds or minutes but you know it has been longer because when you look through the doors the sky is different. It must have been hours; time must work differently in that world.   
It’s dizzying to be back on Earth, and you are shocked that nothing has changed since you were gone.  
You stagger towards a photo booth with a curtain and sit yourself on the bench. There is a screen, with people on but you’re not sure how they got there or how to get them out. You think maybe they’re in another world too.   
It’s warmer in here, and safer and you have remembered that you exist, which us good.  
You also remember that you were meant to be at Ash’s house, and you remember where that is.   
You figure you should probably head over.  
The sky is a lighter blue then it was when you went into the arcade so you guess it’s around 4 in the morning. You’re coming down a bit, finally, and it’s a relief.  
You love acid, you really do but it’s a pretty intense experience and that trip was scarier than most. It’s not the kind of thing that you could deal with for too long.  
The walk is quicker than you expected and you are both relieved and incredibly pleased with yourself when you see the entrance to Grange Park.  
The streets are almost deserted, and you step over puddles of vomit, your bear feet cold and filthy.  
You knock on Ash’s door, hoping to God he is awake. He isn’t.  
You hop the fence and go round the back, you know where he keeps the spare key so let yourself in.  
You are so, so glad you exist again.   
The house is quiet and peaceful.  
You’re not quite sober yet and your mind races as you stick your feet in his kitchen sink and run them under the hot tap.  
The water burns even though it’s not that hot, you hadn’t realised how cold you were.  
You dry them off with a tea towel and flop down on his sofa in the living room, pulling the fluffy blanket of the back of the coach over yourself.  
Your thoughts won’t shut up, and you know it will be hours before you get to sleep.  
Your phone reads 5:37am, and you’re really grateful that you have speed or you wouldn’t be able to get through your shift at work tomorrow. You close your eyes and wait for sleep.


	7. Children in Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long, I've had exams and then a school trip to Switzerland so I've only just had like a spare 5 minutes!  
> As an apology I'll post 2.  
> So for people who aren’t from the North Affleck’s is an alternative department store in the Norther Quarter in Manchester, it’s like diners, record stores, clothes shops, tattoo parlous etc. and it’s a pretty good place to chill. Antwerp Mansion is like a rundown Victorian house that’s now a sick club, Sound control is an old record store that is now a club and the Warehouse is just a club in a warehouse!

Children in Heat  
It’s 8am and you’re on the free bus to Manchester. You know you should go home but you just can’t face it. Your Dad is most definitely going to kill you; you haven’t been home for 2 days.  
You stayed at Ash’s house until it was time for work, which didn’t finish till 1am. After that you spent the rest of the night in McDonalds. Now you’re on the first bus to the city.  
You have 3 minion pills in your pocket, 2 left over that Loki gave you at the party and one you bought.   
You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t have a plan. You were going to get the bus home but chickened out at the last minute and when you saw the Manchester bus you jumped on it without thinking. You figure you’ll take the pills and chill in Affleck’s or the park or something.   
It’ll be cold and nowhere near as fun as a party but better than home. You could always go down to Antwerp or the Warehouse or maybe hit up Sound Control. You don’t have any dollar but you look slutty enough that you could probably get a few drinks bought.  
******  
You’re in Antwerp mansion, it’s only midnight but you’ve been taking pills all day. You took one at around 10 am when you arrived, one at 4pm, another at 10pm when you started hitting up clubs and just re-dosed an hour ago. You have one left for later.  
You’ve received 4 drinks from different guys but none were particularly interesting.  
You look upward at the lights flashing in different colours and smile. It’s nights like this that make the £30 you spent on fake ID worth it.  
You stare up at the ceiling and twirl round and round in circles. The feeling makes you squeal. It’s complete Euphoria and an overwhelming dizziness that’s so intense you stagger backwards, struggling not to fall over.  
You push outside, suddenly unbearably hot. The sky is huge; you don’t remember it ever having been so big before. You take deep breaths focusing on how huge and all-consuming it is.  
You fumble in your pocket and pull out the little baggie with the last pill in. You swallow it with no beer and a grimace.  
The high hits you almost immediately. It’s so intense you can’t do anything but fall to the floor and remain squatting there staring unblinkingly straight ahead.  
You don’t know what these pills are cut with but they’re super fucking intense, super fucking trippy.  
Your eyes feel like they are going to pop out of your head and you want to touch every inch of your body to check you are real. 2 eyes. 2 eyes ready to pop out. You are hot and the worlds isn’t real. You are above everything, watching and inside of it. Fast, slow, Strongbow.  
The guy holding Strongbow cider for you looks unreal in the flickering club lights, you stare up at him from your position lying on your back. He is older, possibly in his thirties. He has dark spikey hair and a rugged, handsome look. There is a scar at the corner of his mouth, the whiteness of it standing out against his tanned skin which glows healthily, the complete opposite of your pale, sickly pallor. In fact, with his sleek leather jacket and tight tee showing of his sharp defined muscles you realise he is the complete opposite of you in every way. He is older and cooler and HOT. Plus, he’s actually here legally which is way rad.  
He pulls you up with ease and hands you the drink. You gulp it, horribly thirsty. He tells you to slow down buddy and you listen because his whole presence is commanding and authoritative and you don’t want to mess this up.   
You grin at him wide, then stop quickly, not wanting to come on too strong.  
Some next level fucked up shit, right here.  
You feel aggressively average next to this new guy. You don’t even think you have any skin. Or maybe you have an extra layer.  
There is a label digging into your back. You have no skin but you have a label. That’s just depressing.  
What the fuck.  
Everything is sparkling. The guy’s teeth are sparkling as he laughs at you.  
The beat runs. The music is bleeding out.  
You’re in an endless loop and you see Satan’s hand reaching out for you from the corner of your eye. You turn away.  
The guy asks you your name and it takes you a minute to process.   
‘Bucky’ you say.  
He holds out his hand ‘Brock’ he says. You realise he wants you to shake it so you do. The gesture seems foreign.   
You take another long gulp from the cider and fumble with your tin, pulling out of your jeans. He takes it out of your hands and opens it, taking a sleek rolled fag and handing it back to you. You aren’t annoyed. He lights his then yours with a fancy zippo lighter.  
You say that everything is going too fast, because it is. The colours are rushing and blurring. He laughs and tells you he’ll teach you just what fast is.  
He takes your hand and pulls you too him then twists your round so your back is pressed too his strong chest.   
He wraps his arms around you, one on your chest and one hovering over your crotch area.  
He sways side to side with you and you find yourself craving touch, pushing closer into him and slowly grinding against him. You lay your head on his shoulder and look back at him. He smiles down at you and you feel a rush of excitement.   
You don’t really remember everything that followed. You remember lights and dancing. You remember him feeding you another pill, not a minion, something he had brought. You remember his smile as he laughed at you, and throwing up in the gutter. He held your hair back from your face and rubbed your back, still laughing. You don’t remember that rich laughter ever stopping. You remember piling into his car, kissing him sloppily.  
You come back to yourself as his hands roam your body, and suddenly the car is too small, the roof is too low, there is not enough air in here. You’re not ready, you don’t even know this guy’s surname.   
You know that you’re a slut and that shouldn’t stop you but for once you want to do this right, you think you actually might like this guy. You’ve never slept with a guy you actually liked and who actually cared about you before and it feels like it should be important.  
More than likely he won’t like you back, and you’ll probably fuck the whole thing up by telling him you’re not ready. You’re confused. You’re too scared to say no and disappoint him but you don’t want this to be just meaningless sex.  
On top of all the confusion you’re coming down hard; you’re tired and depressed and the world seems a dull grey compared to the rush of colours and lights it was earlier.  
You raise your hand in an uncoordinated motion to push him away, not expecting it to work. To your surprise it does, he backs of.   
‘You not ready for that, baby?’ He asks  
‘Just. Not right now. Comedown.’ You mutter, embarrassed and shocked that he actually listened.  
‘Sure baby’ he replied, soft and understanding ‘It’s 5am, anywhere I can take you?’  
You pause, thinking, then shake your head. You can’t ask him to drive you to Blackpool, it’d take like an hour.  
‘I live in Preston.’ He tells you ‘I can take you back with me if you want?’  
You shake your head no, you don’t want to be a burden and sleeping over at someone’s house the day you met them seems way to clingy and desperate.  
You push open the car door.   
‘I’ll get the bus.’ You say, smiling slightly.  
‘Hey’ he says and pulls his phone out, ‘put your number in there.’  
You do, feeling a rush of happiness that he wants to see you again.  
You hand him the phone back and he calls it, it vibrates in your pocket.   
‘There’ he says, ‘Now you got mine too. You need anything, just text.’ He gives you a lopsided smile that sends shivers down your spine and pulls the car door shut.  
You remain standing there, watching as he drives away before going to find a park to sleep off the comedown.


	8. Don't Threaten me With a Good Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the 2nd one!

Don’t Threaten Me with a Good Time

You mainly meet Brock in his car. He buys you cheap whiskey and cigs and in return you let him kiss you and touch you. You still haven’t had sex yet.  
He’s the first person who listens to your depressing rants and doesn’t make you feel like and emo teen. Sometimes you spend hours sitting in his car and just talking. He doesn’t say much, just nods reassuringly and tells you it’s all going to be okay and that you can always come to him.  
You think that that might be true.  
Steve meets him, one day, and you feel awkward and guilty and conflicted. But you don’t have a chance with Steve, you tell yourself, so you may as well just forget it, focus on what you do have instead. You have Brock, and Brock is amazing.  
You and Steve are walking through the dark streets at 12pm after a shitty party. You all got kicked out cause the guy’s Mum turned up and everyone split to find something else to do.  
You’re a little drunker than Steve and you’ve had A LOT of weed, but nothing else. You stagger slightly against the corner of the pavement and Steve grabs hold of your arm without comment.  
You trip over again and Steve slings his arm over your shoulder, sighing ‘Are you kidding me right now? Can you even stand up straight?’  
You laugh loosely and stick your arms out to the side, putting one foot in front of the other dramatically ‘I’m fine, see?’ you tell him.  
‘You screwed for the morning shift tomorrow, you know that right?’ he tells you.  
You shrug, uncaring. Steve couldn’t sigh harder if he tried.  
He grabs hold of your elbow, and you think how easy it would be to take his hand.  
You suggest heading to Bargain Booze and buying a 6 pack and some more cigs, spend the rest of the night in the 24 hour McDonalds with burgers and fries and alcohol.  
He shrugs and says he might head home, he’s got work tomorrow and so have you.  
‘Come ooon’ you say ‘It’ll be fuun. Don’t be a killjoy!’  
He rolls his eyes and says fine, but only for a few hours, not all night, He wants to be back by 3.  
You drag him there tripping over your feet and laughing. It takes you longer than usual to get there, about 10 minutes as opposed to the usual 5.  
When you arrive you are taken by surprise for a moment; leaning against the wall, with a cig and a beer, is Brock.  
You stare at him briefly and he turns to face you. He winks.  
‘How are ya kid?’ He asks smoothly. Steve looks from him to you, confused.  
‘I’m – I’m good Brock. What are you doing here? I mean how are you?’  
He laughs and you melt, as you always do when he does that. It’s smooth as honey and rich as dark chocolate.  
‘Can’t a guy have a beer? I only live an hour away kid, been with some friends here. I grew up here you know’  
You grin and nod, stuffing a fiver in Steve’s hand.  
‘Get the beer will ya’ you mutter.  
Steve looks at you, incredulous, and shakes his head.  
‘No.’ He says ‘You do it, or get your Dad over there to if you’re too chicken.’  
You stare at him, shocked, Steve is usually so nice to everyone, it’s weird to see him like this.  
‘He’s – he’s my boyfriend.’ You say.  
Brock raises an eyebrow, and you regret it the moment you’ve said it. What if it creeps him out? You’ve never used that word before.  
‘Boyfriend?’ Steve asks hesitantly ‘You like guys?’  
‘Yeah.’ You reply with more confidence ‘That a problem?’  
He shakes his head ‘No, just thought you would have told me, is all.’  
‘Oh.’ You say ‘Well, it just didn’t seem like a big deal.’  
‘Right.’ He says bitterly, nodding ‘I don’t want to get in the way of your little date, I’m gonna head home. Have fun you guys. And Bucky, don’t be late for work.’ He turns and begins to walk away, quickly, and suddenly way soberer than he was 10 minutes ago.  
‘Steve wait!’ you shout, but he just carries on walking.  
‘So boyfriend huh?’ Brock’s voice makes you jump; you’d almost forgotten he was there.  
You shrug, suddenly embarrassed.  
‘Come on baby, forget about him. I’ll show you what a boyfriend can do.’ He says grabbing your wrist.  
You watch Steve’s retreating form for a second, the turn and follow him to his car.


	9. Annihilate This Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter isn't that great, sorry, it's just sort of a filler between chapter 8 & 10 to make it flow better.

Annihilate This Week

You wake up to 5 missed calls and 8 texts from Steve. You're spread uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Brock's car, your neck pressed against the window. 

He's still snoring in the back.

You check the time and realise, with mounting horror that it's 3pm, you were supposed to be at work for 8, there was a 40th in the bar going on from 12 till 4 and you were supposed to set up and prepare food and help decorate the place this morning. You are so fired. 

Steve's texts say as much;  
•I told you not to be late  
•Get your ass out of bed and get down here  
•Get your dick out of that pervert’s mouth, you're 2 hours late  
•The boss is going to kill you  
•He says to get here in 30 minutes or you're fired  
•You're fired  
•Told you so   
•You're an asshole

You groan, clicking your sore neck. You don't know how you're going to manage without a job. You're dead, you're fucking dead. Your Dad'll kill you if he finds out.

You lean back and try to think of a reply but you really can't be arsed.

Steve thinks you're throwing your life away; you wonder if he's right.

It's terrifying really, thinking about the future. You just don't know what your gonna do. You've mainly just been concentrating on getting through the day without shooting yourself in the head recently, on finding anything that'll fill that empty pit at the bottom of your stomach.

Steve's anger makes you angry; he has no right to interfere in your life or tell you what to do. Can't he see you're trying? You're doing what makes you happy and what's the big deal about that? If you die young who gives a fuck? It's your body and you'd rather live a shorter life that you'll actually enjoy. Plus, you'd have probably shot yourself by now if it weren't for these things that can make you feel alive.  
You don’t feel like getting up. You don’t feel like doing anything. It almost takes more energy than you possess to drag yourself up and out of the car, slamming the door behind you.  
Brock doesn’t stir, a bottle of whiskey, nearly empty, clutched to his chest. He didn’t have that last night. It hurts to think he went out without you. You don’t know why.   
You shove your hands in your pockets and pull your hood up, shuffling through the streets like a zombie, thinking only of climbing into bed the moment you get home.  
You shouldn’t be tired, you know, and you aren’t really physically exhausted. You just get days sometimes when you can’t be bothered getting out of bed.  
It had caused problems at college, there being at least 2 days a week when you are either too fucked to attend, or don’t wake up fully till the day is over.  
It used to make Steve worry, but you doubt he cares anymore.  
Your hair falls in your face, long and greasy and you don’t bother to push it back. You smell like a pub, of stale beer, and stale sweat and stale cigarette smoke, mixed with the underlying scent of piss and vomit.  
You wrinkle your nose, you need to shower but you know you won’t have one, not today. Your hair is long enough that it’s way too much effort to dry.  
You do, however, make the effort to stop off at Bargain Booze and buy a bottle of Jack’s; if Brock gets one so do you.   
The guy doesn’t even ID you, and you sidle out with it tucked under your arm, a stolen packet of gum gripped loosely under your jacket. You wish it were a gun you were holding under there. You imagine waving it in the shopkeeper’s face, screaming at him to give you the goddamn money. You imagine running out of the store with it all stuffed in your rucksack, Steve waiting outside in a getaway car, probably stolen, and the two of you would drive off, to a far off city together. Not Steve, you correct, Brock; you and Brock would drive off into happily ever after, the end.  
Your Dad isn’t in when you get home, making you wonder if maybe there is a God after all.  
You flop down on your bed and plan to down most of the whiskey, possibly throw up or cry, and then sleep for 15 hours straight.  
It obviously doesn’t work like that.


	10. Milkshakes and Police State

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a pretty clear description of a bipolar episode so if that's triggering just watch out  
> Steve may seem a little OOC but I figured he's not angry so much as he is scared and jealous, and Steve is pretty quick to anger when he thinks something's not right so yeah

Milkshakes and Police State

Steve's POV

You wake up to an overexcited knocking on your window. It’s still dark outside and you groan in displeasure when you read the neon numbers on you alarm clock; 2:47 am.  
‘What the fuck?’ you mutter, running a hand over your face. The knocking continues.  
You drag yourself up and tow the window, unsurprised to see Bucky balanced precariously on the edge, grinning excitedly. He was wearing only a T-Shirt and jeans despite the frigid morning air.  
Your previous anger is hard to hold on to when he’s like this, manic and unreally happy.  
You pull open the window, letting him in with a blast of cold air.  
He continues to grin at you, as if he has no idea you were ever angry.  
‘I want a milkshake.’ He says, his words quick and slurred ‘Let’s go get milkshake.’  
You look him up and down ‘Have you taken anything?’ you ask, knowing he wouldn’t, couldn’t lie to you when he’s like this. He shakes his head rapidly, his whole body vibrating with the movement. Just manic, then. You hated Bucky’s episodes, hated the fear that always accompanied them.  
‘You not take your meds?’ you ask  
He shrugs nonchalantly and reaches for your hand.  
‘Come ooon Steve’ he whines, and you know there’s no point arguing. You slip on some trousers and a T-Shirt, grabbing your hoodie.  
‘You need a jacket’ you tell him as you clumsily do up your laces, still half asleep, but he just shakes his head again.  
You sigh, following him down the stairs and out the door, careful to tiptoe to avoid waking your parents up.  
Jamie practically flies down the street, non-stop talking the whole way.  
You live on the other side of town than he does, and it doesn’t escape your notice that he’s been home since yesterday. So he must have walked all the way without a jacket.  
You groan as you get to the nearest Diner, it is, predictably, closed.  
‘Come on,’ you say ‘No where’ll be open at this time’ You’re still not awake enough to deal with this shit.  
‘I know.’ He says calmly, that terrifying glint lighting up his dark brown eyes. ‘We don’t need it to be open, we just need them to have ice-cream!’ he says, and before you can stop him he’s kicking the door, hard, throwing all his (admittedly small) weight into it.  
‘Jesus’ you mutter under your breath, reaching for his hoodie to pull him back.  
He shrugs you off bodily and continues to kick at the door.  
‘Fucking hell Buck you’re going to get us arrested!’ you tell him.  
‘We’ll be fine, don’t worry, no one’s here, I made sure they can’t get us.’  
‘For fuck’s sake Bucky, there IS no they, the only people who we possibly have to worry about is the goddamn police.’  
He laughs in response, shaking his head ‘The goddamn police are nothing compared to them.’  
You groan, leaning your head against the brick wall.  
‘Look,’ you tell him ‘I’m getting out of here, I’m not standing around waiting to get arrested.’ You wouldn’t actually leave him, but you’re hoping the threat will be enough.  
‘You’re leaving me?’ he scowls ‘I can’t believe you’d do this. You’re going to leave me for them to find me? How could you do this to me?’ He’s shouting now, and you regret saying anything, you open his mouth to calm him down but he continues.  
‘Brock would never do this to me.’  
You stare at him uncomprehendingly for a beat, that stung. You know it’s jealousy, but you tell yourself it’s purely because that guy is a jerk, and you don’t understand how Bucky can’t see it. You can’t stand the thought of that creep laying his hands on your best friend.  
‘Yeah?’ it comes out harsh and cold ‘Well maybe you should have woken Brock up at 3 in the goddamn morning and dragged him out of bed, fucked up his day like you never fail to do mine!’ He’s stopped kicking the door to glare at you, which is a plus.  
You both hold each other gaze, you are the one who breaks it, when you can’t stand to look at him anymore, it hurts to hold yourself back from kissing him.  
You turn on your heel and power walk down the street, you begin running the moment you round the corner and don’t stop until you are in front of your door.  
You try to sleep, try not to think about Bucky breaking into that fucking diner to make himself a fucking milkshake. The complete twat.  
Your efforts are of course, fruitless. You remain staring at the ceiling. It’s nearly 3 hours until you get the call, it’s not unexpected; you answer immediately.  
Bucky sounds calmer than he did when he turned up at your house earlier, they probably gave him his meds, or maybe the shock had sobered him up.  
‘I got arrested.’ He said, he sounds nervous.  
‘Yeah.’ You reply.  
‘They want to talk to Dad.’  
‘Right,’ you say bitterly, ‘And by that I assume you mean you have given them Brock’s mobile?’  
A pause, a yes.  
‘So why are you calling me then?’  
‘I-I don’t know.’ He says, quiet, timid. So unlike the Bucky from just 3 hours ago, they could have been two different people. You suppose they kind of are.  
‘Well, you had it coming.’ You inform him, not allowing yourself to feel bad. It’s true, and your angry. You are sick of this shit, you’re supposed to be his friend, not his babysitter, and certainly not the third wheel to him and his perverted old lover.  
‘I know.’ He tells you, hollow, accepting.  
‘Maybe this will teach you a lesson’ you know even as you say it that it isn’t true. There’s no point. Bucky’s sick, and the cocktail of drugs they pump him with will never completely cure that. He’ll either forget to take them, or they’ll react with a more …recreational substance and he’ll end up in jail, or hospital, or, and this is why you’re really angry (scared), dead.  
The line is quiet, neither of you know what to say.  
‘Yeah, yeah it will’ Bucky mutters. ‘I should let you sleep; I’ve bothered you enough today.’  
You consider saying that he isn’t bothering you, but he kind of is, so you remain silent.  
‘Bye Steve.’  
The dial tone sounds like a heart monitor flat lining.


	11. Dept. of False Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-con sexual content.  
> Also I don't know if I've said this before but I don't own Marvel or Captain America

Dept. of False Hope

Brock throws an arm over your shoulder, laughing as you exit the station. He thinks it’s hilarious that you got arrested for a milkshake, and the more he laughs the more you realise how truly ridiculous the whole situation is; of all the bad thing you have done this is the one that’s gonna get put on your record. You’ve potentially fucked up your future over a fucking milkshake.  
He offers you a half empty bottle of Jack’s and you take it gratefully. You can almost forget about Steve if you drown your thoughts in the amber liquid.  
“Come back to mine.” Brock says “You can’t go home at this time.”  
Sober, you probably wouldn’t agree. You’re not exactly a virgin but you want this thing to work, and fucking a guy straight away always leads to them finding someone new. Plus, you want to be sober when it happens, you’ve never slept with anyone sober before so you want your first time to be with Steve – Brock. You correct yourself,  
But as it is the alcohol makes you comfortably numb and fuzzy, you’re pretty tired now, energy having been quickly drained by the fear in the situation. After screaming yourself horse for an hour in a police station you don’t fancy getting the shit kicked out of you for breaking curfew.  
So you nod your head.  
“I’ve got a few friends round.” He says “Not a big party, just a few guys hanging out.”  
You don’t really feel like ‘hanging out’ with anyone, let alone a bunch of 30-something year old men you don’t know, but you don’t want Brock to think you’re square so you nod again.  
You clamber into his all too familiar Ford and huddle yourself up against the window. You don’t have a jacket and it’s a lot colder than you realised when you left your flat hours ago.  
The clock on the dash reads 5:32, and you realise you were in the station for over 2 hours. It was a miracle that Brock was up.  
You drive back in silence. The energy is still there, buzzing under your skin, but it’s muted by the fear and the stress.  
Brock is never particularly forthcoming with conversation, preferring to listen and give the occasional grunt. He most defiantly prefers having his dick sucked than talking.  
You drive for around 45 minutes, pulling outside a row of terraced houses not too far from college. You scramble out of the car after him and follow him to his door. You’re slightly nervous as you enter, you’ve never been in a committed relationship before, and going to someone’s house after they drove 45 minutes to pick you up from the police station at half 5 in the morning feels pretty committed.  
The house is small and slightly dirty, there’s a large flat screen TV that probably cost more than the rest of the furniture combined, and leather sofas. There are 5 other guys in the room, all tall and muscled and masculine like Brock.  
They’re sitting on the couches, holding beers, looking as if they are waiting for something.  
Brock grabs you a beer and holds out a pill to you.  
‘Take this.’ He says ‘It’ll make you feel better.’  
‘What is it?’ you ask  
‘Just something to calm you down, nothing dangerous, you know I wouldn’t give you anything bad.’  
You take the pill, because you know that’s true, Brock would never want to hurt you. You think he might love you. Why else would he take you back to his house and introduce you to his friends? Why else would he listen to your bullshit and not get fed up of you?  
You sit down on the couch amongst the guys, practically gulping down the beer. You feel like you’re 10 again, on the park at the corner of the estate, trying to impress the older kids by smoking cheap cigarettes and doing skateboard tricks, or picking on the younger kids. You don’t think you have ever felt so desperate to appear cool.  
They laugh as you open your third beer, turning away from some re-run of a football game as you belch loudly.  
You should be embarrassed but everything has become hazy and far away. Your hands are too heavy to lift and you can’t bring the beer up to your face. You let it drop loosely from your hand and onto the table. You try to pull yourself up to get to the bathroom, but your legs won’t cooperate. You feel smashed, but you’ve barely drunk anything.  
Brock is suddenly above you, smiling down at you.  
‘I think it’s time for you guys to leave.’ He says to the room at large. All but one of the guys leave, and you try to track them with your eyes but it makes you dizzy.  
Brock strokes his finger down the side of your face gently and you lean in to the contact. You’ve never been touched like this before, like you are important, like you are more than just a sex toy.  
‘How ya doing, Baby’ he asks you and you think you slur out a response, but you’re not sure what it is.  
‘You want to suck my dick sweetheart?’ he asks.  
You glance over at the other guy sitting on the couch opposite, you want to say no, you’ve never done this in front of anyone before but you don’t have the willpower to argue. Besides, you are supposed to be acting cool.  
You slide yourself of the couch and in front of Brock, spreading his legs out wide. The other guy whistles as you like your lips and pulled down the zipper of Brock’s tight blue jeans.  
‘You sure picked a looker Brock.’ He says with a growl.  
Brock hums in response, fisting his hands into your hair and pulling you close. You almost gag as he shoves himself roughly down your throat but you manage to prevent it. You don’t want Brock’s friend to think you’re too young or inexperienced.  
You work your tongue, holding in a cough as he thrusts with more pain and more force, grinding your hips up against the couch in as sexual a display as you can manage when you can barely coordinate your thoughts, let alone your body.  
Brock groans as he cums, his slightly salty and gooey spunk shooting into your mouth. You swallow like a good boy and don’t even gag as it slides its way down your throat, looking up at him with dark, hooded eyes.  
The other man is suddenly next to him, pulling you towards himself, his legs spread out and his zipper down ready.  
You try to push yourself backwards but Brock blocks you.  
‘Come on baby’ he says ‘Don’t be shy.’  
You look back at the guy and then at Brock again. Be cool. You tell yourself. And you can tell from the look in Brock’s eyes that he’s only doing this because he loves you so much, he thinks you are so beautiful that he just has to share.  
You push yourself up against the couch and lean forwards again, your throat is already sore but you don’t complain, the pain barely registers in your foggy mind.  
And for the first time on your life you feel beautiful, wanted. He groans in pleasure and you don’t think you have ever felt as proud.  
Brock strokes your hair when you have finished, whispering into your ear how beautiful you are, how perfect. And you believe him. He is warm, comfortable and solid. And he loves you.  
You think he might laugh when you tell him you love him, you think they both might have, but it must be the fog and darkness that fills your head, because Brock wouldn’t do that.  
You think you see him roll his eyes as yours close but you must be imagining it.  
It’s easy to fall asleep with Brock stroking your hair and holding you close. For the first time in your life you actually feel safe.


	12. Because of The Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Implied mental illness and child abuse ahead!  
> Sorry it's late, I was away.

Because of the Shame

Steve's P.O.V

You reach for your phone before you even open your eyes. You feel intensely bad for being so dismissive with Bucky last night, you know he didn’t mean it, he can’t help his episodes, and you’re worried. Really worried.  
You don’t really know this Brock guy but the whole situation just feels wrong. No one of his age dates someone of Bucky's age without unsavory intentions and you hate to think that something could have happened to him because you were being petty and jealous.  
There are no texts and no missed calls.  
You put your head in your hands. Bucky is immensely hard to deal with, but you love him. You really do. You love the way his eyes light up when he’s excited and the way he smiles with all of him. You love the way that he can tell jokes and cheer you up even when his problems are way bigger than yours. You love his long hair and ratty clothes and full pink lips. You love the way they part to let out the smoke of a cigarette. You love how alive he is, how intensely he lives.  
You close your eyes and groan. You are in love with him and you can never let him go.  
Bucky is like and electron, always charged, even if negatively, zipping round the rest of them too fast for them to keep up, always moving. He won’t stop, not for you, not for anyone. He’ll bounce from person to person not slowing down till he runs out of energy and then he’ll crash and they’ll be no one left but you.  
You’ll be there to pick up the pieces, get him moving again. And then you’ll lose him to one night stands in shitty clubs; the pattern will repeat.  
Or at least that’s how it used to be. Brock is the only one who has made him pause. You don’t think this is a good thing, now that it has happened, or maybe it’s just not good because it’s not with you.  
And maybe you are just clouded by jealousy but you hate that guy. He’s bad news. You know he will suck the life out of Bucky and you can’t let that happen, but you don’t know what you can do.  
You just know you can’t watch it.  
***********************************

Bucky's P.O.V

You wake up hot and confused. Sweat is making your T-shirt and hair stick to your back uncomfortably and you can barely move you are so tangled in the sheets.  
You have the unsettling feeling of being watched, and when you look up Brock is there looking down at you. He smiles and shakes his head fondly when you meet his eyes.  
‘Where am I?’ you ask, though you think you know.  
‘You’re in my bed, you passed out last night so I carried you up here.’  
You groan in embarrassment, so much for looking cool.  
‘You were such a little slut last night’  
You freeze, your body going cold. He doesn’t sound angry but that doesn’t mean anything. You don’t remember anything after your third beer, and so have no idea what you have done.  
He must see the discomfort in your expression because he puts you out of your misery, or perhaps draws you further into it, it’s hard to tell, you’re still confused.  
‘You sucked me off in front of Rollins and practically insisted in sucking him off straight after. You were so thirsty for it. It was unbelievable. You’re a real horny drunk, kid.’  
You face pales and you stammer out an apology. You are absolutely mortified; he’s going to think you’re such a slut. He’s going to think you don’t care about him, you just want him for his dick.  
He laughs ‘Don’t get me wrong kid it was great stuff, real hot. Got me so hard.’  
His eyes are dark and predatory, but all you can feel is the shame.  
‘Still, I’m sorry’ you mutter ‘I was drunk, I didn’t mean to.’  
‘I’m not mad at you, baby’ he smiles, soft and gentle, reaching out a hand to stroke your cheek. You flinch back on instinct but his hand follows you and you let it, leaning into the touch like a lifeline as it flutters across your face. The gesture is small but it speaks loudly. No one has ever touched you like that, not since your Mum.  
The last time anyone touched you softly was just after she had come out of hospital for the first time, you were 4. You remember it clearly; you don’t think it’s something you’ll ever forget.  
You are sitting in your underwear; the same pair you have been wearing since she went in over a week ago. You haven’t had a bath since then despite telling her you’ve had a million.  
You are playing with a 3 wheeled truck you nicked from school but you can’t get it to balance right.  
She sits on the floor in front of you, cross-legged and smiles gently and kindly.  
You look up, frowning.  
‘Where have you been?’ you ask her  
‘I’ve been in the hospital.’ She tells you ‘I was sick but the doctors made me all better. I’m sorry I left you baby, so sorry.’ She sounds sad, and you don’t know why if she’s all better.  
‘I love you baby.’ She says  
‘Well I don’t love you.’ You shout at her ‘And I’m not sorry.’  
You’re standing up with your arms folded, ready to storm out of the room.  
‘Of course you’re not sorry baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.’ She’s crying now, but not like you cry. She’s crying but she’s not making any noise.  
She stands up too, and takes your hand.  
The memory gets fuzzier here, but you remember her taking you for a bath, putting plasters on the cigarette burns on your arms and getting you clean underwear and a T-shirt.  
You remember her picking you up and wrapping you in a big towel. You sit on your knee whilst she sings to you about Hey Jude and Summertime. She strokes your face gently and cries silently.  
You remember her putting you to bed and kissing you goodnight, still crying.  
You remember covering your ears at the sound of shouting and broken glass from the living room.  
You remember wishing you had told her you loved her.


	13. False Freedom

False Freedom

‘I’ve gotta go to work’ Brock says ‘I can give you a lift to the bus station if you want?’   
You shake your head as you wriggle into your jeans. You don’t think you could stand the stifling atmosphere of a car.  
The two of you kiss on his doorstep, gently, kindly, and then he’s gone, and it occurs to you that you don’t even know his last name.  
It’s raining, lightly but in thin sideways sheets that have you soaked in minutes and by the time you get to the station you’re wet through and miserable.  
The bus doesn’t come for another half an hour and by the time you get on your jeans have dried, stiff and uncomfortable.  
To make matters worse there are no seats.  
You are cursing your shitty luck as you climb the steps to your flat, head down, hair still dripping in front of your eyes and wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed with a joint.  
As absorbed in your misery as you are you don’t notice Tony until you’re practically on top of him.  
‘Fuck!’ you cry at the same time as he yelps ‘Shit!’   
Your eyes meet and you both say simultaneously ‘You look like shit.’  
There is silence for a beat and then you both burst out laughing. Maybe it’s the stress of the situation or maybe it’s because you are both emotionally and physically exhausted and there’s so little to laugh about these days, but pretty soon you’re in hysterics.  
You have sunk down to your knees and are leaning on Tony’s shoulder, tears filling your eyes and threatening to spill over. Tony falls into you laughing so hard he’s out of breath and practically silent save for the occasional gasp.  
It takes you around 5 minutes to get yourselves under control and you sit on the doorstep for a minute, gathering your composure.  
You turn to face each other and say ‘What happened to you?’ at exactly the same time. It sets you off again.  
Eventually you end up inside, relatively calm. Your Dad is not in, thankfully, you have no idea where he is but you’re grateful for it.  
The evidence that he’s a total dick still remains, though; beer bottles litter every available surface, as well as the floor and the ratty sofa, and there is a dent in the wall the size of your head. If you look closely you could probably see spots of blood dried up around the place.  
You run a hand through your hair self-consciously, knowing there is no point trying to tidy up.  
‘Umm… what are you doing here?’ you ask. You and Tony run in the same circles, but you've never really been close; there,s always been a weird tension between you. You think it's because you both have a crush on Steve, even if neither of you have a chance with him. He’s part of the stoner crew from the park so you’ve spent plenty of time sitting in trees together sharing a joint;it's not as if your strangers, but it's still odd for him to be at your house.  
‘Got kicked out, had no where else to go. No one who would...understand’ he shrugs, offering no further explanation, and, judging by the rapidly darkening bruise on his cheek you can probably guess anyway.  
In return he doesn’t ask about the bruise on your forehead, the finger marks and bite-marks on your neck poking out above your collar or the vomit on your shirt.  
You are both wet and cold and exhausted.  
You gesture towards the shower with your head and he nods gratefully. Whilst he’s in there you pull out some swears and a hoodie for both of you. You’re a little taller than him but you’re both the same weight so they should fit okay.  
Half an hour later you are both showered, dry and sitting on your bed. You have pulled out a bottle of Glen’s (you don’t have a chaser but you’d rather have shitty vodka than nothing at all).  
You have still refused to talk about your respective injuries.  
The vodka burns as it goes down but neither of you stop drinking, silently passing it back and forth between you and grimacing slightly with each gulp.  
It’s you who breaks the silence, unable to bear it any longer. It’s smothering. Silence reminds you of lying in bed at night staring at the wall, eyes wide and body unmoving; waiting for the footsteps, for the hand over your mouth, for a body slipping in behind you.  
‘Shit.’ You say, when it all becomes too much. The ceiling is spinning slightly.  
You’re still dizzy from last night and the alcohol isn’t helping.  
‘God I’m fucked.’  
Tony gazes at you for a second as he lights a fag and says ‘you out late last night?’  
You nod with a groan.  
‘Rave?’ he asks.  
‘Nah’ you reply ‘Friends party.’  
You don’t mention getting arrested, but then you decide he might find it funny.  
‘Got arrested for stealing milkshake, or trying to anyway’  
He let out a surprised bark of a laugh, shaking his head at you.  
‘Jesus Barnes, you’re a mess!’  
‘Hey!’ you protest ‘I can’t help it. Besides, you’re the one who was sitting on my doorstep, dripping wet with no jacket all morning, you can’t talk asshat.’  
He holds his hands up in surrender, still smiling.  
You finish the lasts of the vodka and toss him a beer, pulling your own fag from your tin.  
‘Buzzin’ he says   
‘Like a bumble twat’ you finish distractedly, searching for your lighter.  
‘Where the fuck is it?’ you snarl, kicking your drawers hard, sending various objects tumbling to the ground.  
‘Chill dude’ Tony says with raised eyebrows as you throw various objects around the room. He holds out his hand with a clippo in it and you snatch it from him, overcome by anger all of a sudden.  
You flop down onto the bed with a groan, Tony’s eyes still on you.  
‘My Dad gets angry when he drinks’ he says, tone light and casual.  
You run a hand over your face ‘Yeah? So does mine’ (which is pretty much every day) you tell him ‘I don’t usually. I usually get sad.’  
You flop back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The moment you mention it depression sinks in and you just don’t have the energy to hold yourself up anymore.  
‘My Mum was like that.’ Tony tells you. ‘She would cry all the time on the sofa. My Dad’d get mad at her for it.’  
Your eyes meet as he lies down next to you. You have never talked to Tony like this. You realise you don’t really know anything about each other and you always thought the two of you were very different, but now you're actually talk to him properly you can see you are a lot more alike than you realised. When you’ve been abused it colours the way you see the world. Everything is darker, every bit of affection is probably a lie. You watch people’s hands, flinching as they get near you, you watch the doors to make sure no one can surprise you.  
You both understand the initial caution when meeting new people, the fear of any and all authority figures. It’s the bond you (wish you didn’t) share.  
‘She used to say’ he continues, jolting out of your thoughts ‘that when she was a kid her Uncle used to touch her sister, but I think she really meant he used to touch her. I think that’s why she let Dad treat her like he did, ‘cause she was used to it you know?’ He says, turning to look at you.  
You don’t say anything for a moment; though you know you should. It can’t have been easy for him to share that and you feel like you should return the favour. You think you are the only person he could talk about this with, and you totally get that.  
You won’t judge each other, and it feels good to share.  
‘My’ you begin, breath ragged ‘My uncle used to touch my sister too.’  
You continue to gaze at each other searchingly.  
‘You don’t have a sister’ he finally says.   
You shrug, turning away.  
The silence is less smothering and more understanding as he offers you a fag.  
‘You wanna get some weed?’ he asks.  
You nod, gratefully as you pull out your phone to call up your dealer.  
You have 2 joints and talk about stupid shit for the rest of the night.


	14. Eve of Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the way, idk if I've mentioned this but in Britain college isn't university, it's like the end of high school, so you go when you're 16-18.  
> Also Avenham is just a park near where I live.  
> I think that's it, feel free to ask if theres something confusing!

Eve of Destruction

You debate texting Steve, you have 3 from him, but you’re too afraid to. Afraid he’ll be mad at you. Afraid that he won’t be.  
You spend your days getting drunk and high with Tony, dreading your Dad’s return. You have no idea where he is, or when he’ll be back and so every night when you return home from Avenham you are filled with a feeling of fear. You’re tense every time you enter the flat.  
You make sure to pack away the blankets from the couch each morning; your Dad would be furious if he found at Tony had been sleeping on his couch for 3 days.  
On the 4th day Brock texts. He says he’s got some of the guys round and wants to know if you’re coming over. You jump at the chance.  
You messaged Brock on day 2, but he didn’t reply. Steve would have replied straight away, if you weren’t ignoring him, your traitorous brain supplies.  
You drag Tony along because you can and because you’ve sort of grown used to having him around.  
It’s not a party like teenagers have parties, you explain, but it’s cool. HE’S cool.  
Tony says sure, he’s up for it. He’s up for anything.  
You are almost hurt that he shows none of the concern for you that Steve did, but then you remember that Steve wasn’t really concerned, he was just pretending. Really he was just being judgmental.  
Tony is cool, and he gets that Brock is too, so he doesn’t give one.  
You arrive at the party at 10, after spending WAY to long deciding what to wear (Man, you’ve got it BAD! Tony says)  
Tony seems a little creeped out at the way Brock’s friends leer at you, and sticks close to your side. You try not to find it irritating.  
The guy who had stayed later last time is there and you purposefully avoid his gaze as you sit down. You think it might be awkward as you sip your beer, registering words and laughter but not actually listening to the conversation.  
Brock has his arm wrapped around you, pulling you close to his side possessively.  
Tony sits on the floor by your feet, tense and uncomfortable.  
You both only perk up, and begin registering the conversation going on around you when one of the guys, Rollins, you think, pulls out a baggie of white powder.  
‘Coke’ he says with a wicked grin revealing crooked, yellow teeth.  
Tony begins to smile too, and suddenly the atmosphere in the room becomes a lot lighter. Someone puts some music on, some Spotify party playlist, as Rollins racks lines.  
Brock has a sick sound system, and a massive TV playing some sort of trippy light show that makes the whole thing somehow way more exciting.  
You’re practically vibrating with the thrill of it as the tray and baggie is passed to Brock.  
‘Come ‘ere’ her whispers in that low, rough voice of his.  
You shudder in pleasure as the air tickles your ear and slide closer until you are sitting in his lap. He pushes you back roughly until your head is resting on the armrest of the couch and your stomach is over his crotch area.  
You feel it harden as he lifts up your T-Shirt, stroking his fingers gently across your hipbones.  
You stare up at him, but he does not meet your eyes; he’s transfixed by the flat, pale planes of your stomach.  
He pours out some of the coke onto you and you tremble more violently, sucking in a harsh breath as he drags the razor blade he was using to cut it across you.  
The cold metal is blissful against your heated skin, and you gasp again as he presses down a little harder that necessary.  
‘Sorry baby’ he whispers but he doesn’t need to be sorry; it feels so good to be wanted even as a small trickle of blood bubbles to the surface, hot and red, mixing with the white powder like rose petals in the snow.  
You close your eyes as he snorts each line. Never have you felt so close, so intimate as you do now. Even with everyone’s eyes on you you feel like no one else exists.  
Drugs are such a wonderful, personal thing you feel honoured to be an integral part of Brock’s experience.  
You imagine this is what proper couples do. But you're probably wrong.  
You sit up to receive the tray when he’s finished. You don’t feel it’s your place to snort lines off him. He’s the one in control here, you are his, not the other way around.  
Time speeds up for the next 20 or 30 minutes. You and Tony snort lines off of each other whilst the others watch and cheer. You grin as you lean over him, his vest top discarded on the other side of the room. The coke slides slightly into the cracks of his ribs as you breathe. You lean forward and snort the lines, Tony giggles as the note runs along his stomach. When your nose is full you tilt your head back, you long hair flopping with you like a shampoo ad.  
‘Because your worth it.’ Tony grins, and in one fluid movement pulls you onto the floor and rolls so he is on top of you. The cheering gets louder and Brock whistles appreciatively.  
You look up at him with flirtatious, challenging eyes and see his face. His eyes are dark with lust and he’s rock hard. He’s loving this.  
Without taking your eyes off him you pull Tony in and kiss him roughly, bruising, biting his full, pink bottom lip with your teeth.  
He grinds his hips against yours and moans.  
You are both hard as you pull away, collapsing back onto the floor.  
He pours some coke out on your stomach, licking his lips seductively as he re-rolls the note.  
When he has finished, almost before he has time to fully straighten up, Brock is grabbing you and kissing you, grabbing your cock. You smile against his mouth, so utterly absorbed in the moment. You hear some dude throw his bottle to the side with a cheer. And then the others start too, you open your eyes momentarily to watch them drain the bottles and toss them aside with the satisfying crunch of breaking glass.  
You close your eyes again and deepen the kiss.  
In that moment, just for a second everything feels so good, you feel so wanted, and then it is ruined.  
Another bottle is thrown and Brock pulls away from you with an enraged roar. You jump back startled, and look over.  
Tony is scurrying back, eyes wide with fear. The pieces of his bottle lie just by one of the speakers, you think maybe he hit it. Or nearly did.  
Everyone in the room is frozen in place, holding themselves tense, waiting for him to spring like a tiger pouncing on its pray.  
Tony has lost all colour; his pupils are just pinpricks. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights.  
You let out an involuntary whimper and he whips round to face you. You flinch, taking a shaky step back, terrified.  
You wait and then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he laughs; a breathy, shaky sound. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and grins at you, and then at Tony.  
‘No trouble man, hey it’s no trouble. It’s just the coke man, I’m gonna get something to calm us down, yeah?’  
You relax as he leaves, you know, you KNEW, that he wouldn’t hurt you. You just forgot for a second.  
Tony remains upright and startled. You smile encouragingly at him and he smiles tightly back, though it drops instantly the moment Brock enters the room.  
This makes you sad. You don’t want your friend to be scared of your boyfriend – you’ve had enough drama already with Steve and you don’t want to lose another friend over it.  
The feeling of the coke has completely worn off so you are more than relieved when you see he is carrying a little baggie clutched in his large, sweaty palm.  
He also has, bizarrely, a piece of aluminium foil and what looks like a toilet roll tube.  
‘What the fuck is that?’ Tony asks, staring incredulously at the set up.  
‘Brown Tar kid, whad’ya think?’  
Tony stares at the stuff as if it is poison (which it may as well be).  
‘No way. No fucking way man. I’m NOT touching that stuff.’  
Brock shrugged nonchalantly ‘Hey no pressure man, totally your choice. Bucky's gonna do it though, ain’tcha babe? Bucky’s up for anything. He’s a tough kid, nah he’s a man. A proper man.’ He grins proudly, slapping his hand down onto your thigh.  
You feel an icy hand clenching round your stomach. How can you resist him looking at you like that? How can you embarrass him in front of his friends?  
‘You are, aren’t you babe?’ he presses urgently, eyebrows drawing together into a heart-breaking frown you have never seen him wear.  
‘Barnes...’ Tony begins  
‘It’s way safer when you smoke it. Besides all this super addictive shit is bull. It’s only, like, 20% of people who get addicted anyway.’  
You hesitate, completely conflicted.  
Everyone has said heroin is the one thing you should never touch, but you have always wanted to try it even if you thought you shouldn’t, have always wanted to feel that ultimate peace you’ve heard about.  
And Brock said most people don’t get addicted anyway, you trust him. So you may as well right? You can do it, just this once, try it, seem cool, impress Brock, then tell him you didn’t think much of it and you don’t really think much of it and don’t want to do it again.  
Besides, you’re not gonna get addicted. You’re not a sucker.  
‘Bucky!’ Tony cries as you reach your hand out. Brock smirks – no – it must be a smile. He’s happy. You’ve made him happy.  
The feeling is ultimate bliss. It really is indescribable. Your whole body is overtaken by a warm glow and as you close your eyes you drift above the clouds, trailing your hand through liquid sun. It ripples under your fingertips.  
You groan in ecstasy. This is better than anyone has been able to describe, you don’t know why everyone doesn’t do this; it is so, SO worth it.  
You are dancing, hopping from cloud to cloud. You laugh in childlike elation as you bounce up like you are on a trampoline.  
The wispy white clouds caress you as you turn round and round and round.  
Everything is right in the world, everything. You wonder if you died and have gone to heaven.  
For the first time you are certain that God exists. He is running through your veins and allowing you transcend the boundaries of ordinary human feelings and emotions. You have finally escaped your own mind.  
Your hand falls weakly off of your lap and onto the floor and you roll your head from side to side.  
‘Tony’ you groan out ‘Tony don’t be a pussy; you HAVE to try this. God.’  
You feel like the king of the goddamn world.  
Fuck doing it just once. God it’s worth it. You don’t ever want to stop.

Tony’s P.O.V

Barnes looks fucked; he is slumped back against the sofa, rolling his head from side to side but he hasn’t thrown up, and he looks happy. God he lucks happy.  
The worry lines which usually mar his forehead have completely smoothed out, and a smile graces his full, pink lips.  
His eyes are closed and you have never seen anyone look so relaxed.  
His hand flops off of his lap and he makes a sound like he’s orgasming.  
‘Tony’ he groans in pleasure ‘Tony don’t be a pussy; you HAVE to try this. God.’ He drags his words out, grinning.  
The others around you laugh and you feel your face heating up; you pride yourself on being up for anything; it’s all you really have.  
You just imagine the faces of the people from college when Bucky tells them you’re chicken at the next sesh. If the two of you turn up saying you’ve tried HEROIN, you’ll be heroes. You will have gone farther than anyone else, not the loser who turned down free drugs.  
And what harm can one time do?  
‘Give it hear’ you hear yourself say. You take it before you can back out.  
And God Bucky is right. You had to experience this. God the whole feeling overtakes your body and your running, the sun is on your bare back, and the wind rustles through your hair. You are completely naked in a huge field of flowers that tickle your ankles. The field stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions. No ugly buildings or smog or cars disturb the peace and serenity of the scene.  
You never, ever want to leave.  
God death is worth it for this. You would rather just live another day feeling like this then another century without it.  
You never realised how pointless life was until you felt this. You were just drifting, but now you have an anchor.  
You don’t want it to end.  
You thought MD was pure, undiluted happiness, but you were wrong. This is it. This is where you were meant to be.  
You are in heaven, and things cannot get better.  
Yeah, now you understand completely why so many addicts don’t want to give this stuff up.  
All the consequences are worth it; you just don’t care about anything else.  
You don’t ever want to stop this.


	15. The (After) Life of the Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky needs more pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so late, I've been busy with this Guy's and Doll's show that I'm in; we've been rehearsing like 6 hours a day (we have 9 hours today!) and it was my 18th last week so I (understandably) could NOT do anything productive for like days afterwards!

The (After) Life of The Party

When you wake up you immediately notice the feeling (or lack thereof). After the intense happiness and peace that you felt last night this hollow emptiness you thought you had gotten used to feels agonizing. You draw your knees up to your chest to try and squash the dark bubble of pain in there but it doesn’t work. You look around the room, everyone is asleep. The gear lies on the table, no one had been in any state to put it away after last night.  
You glance over at Brock’s sleeping form; he won’t mind right? He offered it to you last night and you’re his boyfriend. He’d want you to have this, he wants you to be happy.  
You push yourself up and groan slightly, barely a breath; you’re used to being quiet and sneaking around.  
You settle yourself on your knees in front of the coffee table and look down, hands hovering over the surface, unsure.  
You can’t quite remember how it was done; didn’t really focus on it. Is it as simple as putting the powder on the foil, lighting it and snorting it with the tube? You can’t see how that would work.  
You glance over at Brock again, but he looks deeply asleep and you don’t want to be like an irritating puppy. Instead you reach over and nudge Tony in the foot.  
‘Hey, hey Stark’ you whisper-shout ‘Tony wake up’  
You kick him this time, hard enough for him to feel but not painfully. He pushes himself up with a grunt and looks around the room dazed yet cautious. His eyes settle on you and he relaxes.  
‘What you doin’ man?’ he mumbles, voice still gritty from sleep.  
You raise the little baggie and gesture at it. ‘Want some?’  
He hesitates for only a moment, sparing a glance at the other sleeping figures.  
‘Sure’ he says with a shrug, pushing himself off the floor with skinny arms and making his way over you, stepping lightly over stray limbs.  
He kneels beside you, crouched over the table and turns to look at you.  
‘You know what you’re doing?’ he asks  
You grimace ‘No clue man’  
He bites his lip, ‘Give me one second, I’ll look it up’  
He pulls his phone from his pocket and unlocks it. You wait patiently whilst he types, continuously glancing at the sleeping men, at the gear, and then back at Tony.  
He grins triumphantly and brandishes his phone at you; on the screen is an instruction guide, with a diagram, on taking heroin.  
He snorts at you ‘It was easier to find this then it was the answers to my English homework!’ he exclaims.  
You roll your eyes ‘Yeah that’s Britain for ya’ you say as you take the phone from him.  
You’ve never been good at cooking or experiments or anything that requires instructions really, but you manage it pretty quickly. Perhaps it’s because this is something you actually WANT to do.  
You pass the gear to Tony and he snorts some too, lying back on the floor with you when he’s finished.  
You stare at the ceiling, and can’t help the dreamy smile that overtakes your face as the patterns swirl around each other, like fairies dancing.  
You close your eyes and see yourself in a lagoon, bright blue and warm. A waterfall splashes to your left, and a tree of bright pink, tropical looking flowers extends out over the water to your right.  
You lie back and allow yourself to just float in the peace and tranquillity. Birds chirp and the wind rustles but other than that there is only silence. It’s not the bad type, the scary expectant type, it’s the comforting blanket type that wraps around you and keeps you safe. The type of silence where you know you’re alone.  
You come back to yourself maybe a few hours, maybe a few minutes later to Brock’s face hovering over yours, a wide grin spread across it.  
“Wanna try something even cooler?” he asks. With that face, how could you deny him anything? And in this state, how could you argue? He leads you both, stumbling, out of the living room. Your legs feel like jelly and seem to be moving of their own accord.  
He is like a beacon up ahead; you fix your eyes on him as your anchor. The stairs loom above you like a mountain, but, keeping your eyes on the back of Brock’s head you make it up, gripping the banister like a vice.  
You and Tony follow him like loyal puppies into his bedroom, and you sit on the floor at his feet looking up at him with wide, child-like eyes as he lowers himself onto the bed.  
His bedroom screams vain bachelor, with a punching bag in the corner and weights against the back wall.  
The bed is unmade and clothes are scattered everywhere.  
He reaches underneath the slightly rickety looking bed and pulls out a package wrapped in Tesco bags.  
He slowly, carefully, peels back the layers to reveal a dirty cotton wrap. He unwraps it with a flourish.  
Both of you stare, transfixed as he pulls out a needle, a long piece of fabric (maybe a bandanna), a lighter, a spoon and a squeezy bottle you think contains some sort of liquid. There are also several small, wrapped pieces of tinfoil; he opens one to reveal a small quantity of white powder.  
You watch him, oddly mesmerized, as he takes out his gear and sets up.  
When the powder has been prepped and inserted into the needle he grabs your arm. You allow him to wrap the bandanna around the top of your arm and hold it straight as he hits it, making the veins stand out even further, like rolling hills against the stark white of your skinny arms.  
You don’t take your eyes off of him, flinching as he inserts the needle.  
‘It’s so damn much better like this’ he says. ‘And its total bullshit, what they say about it being worse for you; this shit’s China White – way purer.’  
You continue to stare at him.  
He rolls his eyes, ‘I promise you I’ve not got AIDS or nothing.’  
You realise he expects some sort of reaction so you nod, and look down at the needle sticking out of your arm.  
Satisfied he pushes down the plunger. Tony inhales sharply.  
‘I left my better judgement in my other pants’ you shrug at him.  
He snorts, relaxing a little. 'I've never seen you wearing other pants' he scoffs.  
You stare down at the blood, it’s a familiar sight next to china white skin.  
It seems beautiful. It seems broken.  
You release the plunger, allowing the substance to flow into your veins, and crawl rapidly through your body with an intense tingling feeling.  
Your mouth opens in a groan of pure ecstasy.  
The feeling drags you backwards until your lying on the floor, staring up at glittering constellations.  
Your fingers leave behind trails of sparkles as you move them. You make a star angel with heavy limbs, and laugh. It sounds like wind chimes, echoing in the empty darkness.  
Someone pulls the needle out of your arm, but you don’t feel it.  
You thought you had experienced the ultimate pleasure last night, but Brock was right; this is it.  
Finally, you feel like you are the lucky one.  
All the shit you put up with vanishes in that moment; it no longer matters. It was all worth it for this.  
There was a hole inside of you that you didn’t realise was there until now it had been filled.  
**********************  
Tony’s P.O.V  
You feel detached from yourself as you pull the needle out of Bucky’s arm. You don’t hesitate to repeat what you’ve just watched him do; you were hesitant about trying this stuff in the first place but it turned out to be the best move of your life; it can’t be that much different. Besides, Bucky seems fine.  
This time you feel yourself fall. For a second it terrifies you, until you slow and begin to float. Colours and patterns swirl around you; you swear you can see glimpses into people’s lives as you float through time and space.  
You feel lighter; as if you were in constant pain that you had gotten used to and now it had been alleviated and you feel tingly and strange.  
But in a good way.  
You hum peacefully. You are totally content with the world. You have stepped outside of normal life, so it cannot touch you, cannot taint you.


	16. Coward in my Veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parents are shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get two, cause it's so late.

Coward in my Veins

 

You stumble out of Brock’s house you don’t know how many days later. You haven’t eaten since you arrived and your phone died on day one but you haven’t even thought about it. The only reason you’re leaving is because you’ve had the same underwear on this entire time and you haven’t showered; by this point you probably stink. You stagger along the streets to the bus station with Tony by your side. No one spares you a second glance. They’re used to seeing drunks and druggies littering the streets, as common as cigarette butts or crisp packets.  
You dig in your pocket for your bus pass and pull it out. You should be relieved but you feel nothing. Tony is wondering up and down the station asking strangers for bus fare.  
Around the time you reach the door of your building you notice you feel weird, shaky and sort of unreal. Your teeth chatter but you can’t decide whether your hot or cold despite the sun.  
You breathe in deeply and push open the door.  
The elevator is fixed. You watch the doors slide shut with confusion. It’s like you’re in a time warp, it’s so hard to tell what’s real.  
You frown and turn towards the stairs. You don’t trust the phantom lift.  
They take you longer than they should have because you feel heavy, as if you’re in a swimming pool in your pyjamas, like when you did the lifesaving course in primary school.  
When you arrive at your door it’s unlocked. You feel like you’ve stepped into a parallel universe where everything is almost exactly the same except these tiny, subtle things that make all the difference.  
You push at the door cautiously. You can’t remember if this is how you left it. The smell is different. You’ve never noticed the smell before but it stinks of beer and cigarettes and despair.  
You take a cautious step in, and Tony follows behind you looking at you with a frown.  
You glance around. No aliens, no weird portals to another dimension or people with button eyes. Everything seems normal.  
You glance at Tony and shrug before beginning to head to your room.  
‘So ...’   
You jump around three feet in the air, turning around so fast you’ll be surprised if you don’t have whiplash.  
Your Dad is in the armchair by the TV, beer in hand. You don’t know how you didn’t notice him before.  
‘The prodigal son returns. And look! He’s brought a friend. Better tell everyone that the fuck-up fairy has graced us with his presence.’  
You remain standing, wide eyed and silent, not even daring to breathe.  
Tony looks from you to your Dad nervously. He knows how this is going to go down.  
Your Dad gets up and walks towards you until you are touching. Your eyes meet and you feel yours tearing up. After so many days of peaceful bliss this all seems more vivid. It’s all the more terrible in comparison to the life you could be living.  
‘Where the FUCK have you been?’ his spit hits you right in the eye and you flinch but don’t speak.  
‘ANSWER ME YOU LITTLE SHIT’  
He backhands you across the face as hard as is possible. Your neck snaps to the side with the force and your tears threaten to spill over, but you’ve had plenty of practice holding them back.  
He grabs you by the front of the shirt and pulls you towards him. His breath reeks of stale beer, cigarette smoke and pussy.   
‘You been doing drugs?’ you shake your head rapidly ‘You been holed up in some crack house somewhere?’ You whimper and shake your head again.  
He slams you back into the wall, knocking the breath right out of you.  
‘DON’T YOU DARE LIE TO ME!’  
You slide to the floor as he screams. His booted foot comes down on you again and again. You feel a rib crack and another one break but you don’t make a sound. You just lie there and take it like the coward that you are.   
‘What you been taking? HUH?! Heroin, cocaine, fucking meth? ANSWER ME YOU SPINELESS PIECE OF SHIT!’  
A sob escapes your lips and your Dad laughs.   
‘You think crying like a little baby is gonna make me feel bad for you? DO YA? Well think again you fucking FAILED ABORTION! You want to act like an adult and run around town with your drug dealer buddies, then I’m gonna damn well treat you like one!’  
He grabs your arm and drags you up, pushing you against the wall. You’re shaking more than ever and your legs feel like jelly.  
His meaty hand grabs your arms and turns it over. Track marks litter the pale flesh, red and irritated. Your Dad scowls and shakes his head.   
‘Get out of my house. YOU HEAR ME? GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE YOU DRUGGIE PIECE OF SHIT! YOU CAN FUCK UP MY OWN LIFE BUT YOU’RE NOT LIVING HERE IF YOU’RE NOT GONNA CARRY YOUR OWN WEIGHT. FUCK YOURSELF UP ON YOUR DEALERS WATCH!’  
White hot anger suddenly courses through you like lightning and you use the energy to push yourself off the wall and away from your asshole father.  
‘Yeah like you ever watched me. Like you give a shit about what happens to me. You care more about your fat fuck of a girlfriend and your beer then you ever did about me or Mum. So yeah, I’ll go, and I’ll be happy to cause anywhere is better than here. At least Brock treats me like a person!’  
‘You’re not a person, you’re a waste of space. And I’ll be glad to see the back of you FAGGOT!’  
You don’t look back as you storm out of the flat, slamming the door so hard it vibrates against the frame. It opens again a second later but you carry on moving, until your down the stairs and out the door.  
You collapse against the wall, all your energy used up, and just sit there, staring at nothing.  
Tony sits down beside you a moment later. He looks at you with a grimace.  
‘So…what are we gonna do now?’  
‘I don’t fucking KNOW alright Stark? I haven’t exactly thought this through.’  
He sighs and turns away, staring at the chewing gum on the pavement by his hand.  
You close your eyes ‘I always figured I’d go to Steve’s, when I planned this, but – now, well, we’re not really speaking to each other. So that wouldn’t work out.’  
You take a deep breath.   
‘Come on let’s go back to Brock’s. I could really use some H.’


	17. Flash Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of rape and abuse!!  
> Bucky realises that everything has changed, and not necessarily for the better.

Flash Delirium

The situation doesn’t really sink in until you are outside of Brock’s front door. You lift you hand up to knock and realise you don’t have the courage; you’re scared. Not of Brock, you could never be scared of Brock. No, you are scared for yourself, for your future.  
For the first time you appreciate why Tony had sat waiting on your doorstep possibly for hours with nothing to do; you thought you would go crazy sitting there like that but if Brock didn’t answer you would do the same thing.  
You are scared because you have literally nowhere else to go. It’s here or the streets. Steve won’t take you in after everything, would he?  
He would, you know, but you don’t want to admit it. Don’t want to admit that he’s so much better than you, that he’d forgive you in an instant, that the reason you aren’t talking to him is because you can no longer face him. You love him too much for him to see you like this, to know what your life has come to. You want him to think of you as you once were. You are pretty pathetic.  
And you are scared because you don’t know what to sat to Brock. You’ve only know him for a few months, and here you are asking if you and a friend can live with him.  
You bring yourself to knock, eventually; but only because your hands are shaking and you feel like shit and this is the first time you’ve been more than an hour or so without H in over a week and you just can’t stand it.  
He answers a few minutes later and ushers you inside, no questions asked. You are half relieved and also half disappointed, because you look like shit and you want him to care. Maybe you NEED him to care.  
He does care, you tell yourself, he just doesn’t want to push you.  
He smiles a sideways smile ‘You boys need a shot?’  
You nod your head rapidly as he laughs.  
He shakes his head as he leads you to his bedroom. ‘Right this way’  
You follow him without question. You think you always will.

***********************************  
Snapshot of your life: you’re 7 years old and holding your mother’s hair back as she vomits into the toilet. It’s a reddish purple colour, like the bottle of wine she’s just consumed. Her T-shirt is sticking to her back with sweat and she is shaking and crying.  
You alternate between stroking her back and shushing her, and frantically glancing over your shoulder to check your Dad hasn’t woken up.  
She whimpers as she chokes out bile and blood, nothing else left to come up, and rests her head on the toilet bowl.  
She is crying, you notice, and you don’t know how to stop her. You kneel down next to her and take her hand in yours. As you grasp it you notice long, thin, red lines crisscrossing her wrist. You wonder how she got hurt.  
She gets up, pushing you away and fumbles in the bathroom cabinet for a packet of pills. She pops some into her hand, and keeps going until the packet is empty.  
You watch her swallow them, shuddering and grimacing.  
The empty packet drops to the floor and you pick it up. Codeine, you read. She snatches it off you and tosses it aside as she staggers out of the bathroom, tripping over one of her high heels.  
You watch her go from your position on the floor.  
*************************************  
You are so grateful you have a boyfriend. Steve didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, Brock’s great. Very few people would let someone they’ve only been with a few weeks live in their house. Not only that but he is letting your friend live in his house too, AND giving you free drugs, it almost feels too good to be true.  
You get the text a couple of days after returning to Brock’s. It’s from some guy from college who you vaguely know from Avenham. You didn’t know he had your number.  
It simply reads: Sesh @ mine 2moz, 7pm.  
Where is ‘yours?’, you reply.  
He sends you an address in St Anne’s, and you promise you’ll be there.  
It feels weird, accepting the invite. You haven’t been to a sesh in a couple of weeks and everything feels so different now. For starters you’ve been kicked out, and then there’s the whole situation with Steve. Everyone is going to be so weirded out by that. You imagine you’ll find it weird. It’s one thing staying mad at him from a distance, but it’s another looking into his big, blue, puppy dog eyes and being mad at him.  
Also there is the fact that you’ll be taking H. And you know you will be; other drugs no longer suffice. Besides a few hours without a shot feels shitty, you wouldn’t want to go a whole night, there’s no point.  
Somewhere in the back of your mind this scares you, but you push it aside because who cares? Besides you could stop whenever you want, you just don’t feel like stopping yet.  
‘What you reading baby?’  
You look up to see Brock in the doorway, he is leaning casually against the frame with his arms folded in nothing but his boxers. You can see his defined chest muscles and bulging biceps, next to him you look kind of pathetic with your stick legs and twig arms and ribs that stick out. You never go to the gym, or on runs. You don’t understand why he is with you when he could be with anyone.  
‘You want a shot?’ he asks  
‘How about Tony?’  
‘The kids gone out’ he says with a shrug.  
You feel slightly hurt that Tony left without telling you, especially since he would be on the streets without you.  
‘Sure’ you say.  
Brock gives you the kit and you shoot up before passing it to him. He packs it up and puts it away.  
You frown confusedly, he hasn’t had a shot.  
He smiles at you and leans in towards where you are lying on the couch, floppy and pliable. He grabs your face and pulls it towards you, bringing it in for a long kiss. It takes you a moment to kiss back, your mind is working so slowly it’s like each thought has to trek through molasses before it reaches your brain.  
He pulls you onto his lap and you let him handle you like a doll.  
You barely even register it as he pulls down your zipper.  
You have had sex before, but never like this. The H sort of numbs your body, but not in the way that you can’t feel it, in fact it seems to make it more intense. Every time he touches you your previously numb skin tingles and lights up before it fades again into numbness. Brock is wild and animalistic, his tongue tickling and his teeth biting at seemingly every inch of your bare skin. You breathe in deeply as he flips you over onto your back and yanks your cheeks wide. He has no lube and your completely dry but it doesn’t hurt as he slides roughly into you, just the same tingling feeling as everywhere else he roams. He thrusts, hard and you arch your back. He pounds at you, the old leather couch creaking as you move back and forth. His nails are short but still leave red lines as he scratches across your back. You are rock hard, but you don’t cum. Instead it feels almost like you’re having one long orgasm without ejaculation. You tilt your head back and then let it fall onto the couch, not having the energy or will to hold it up.  
Brock pounds into you, his hands grabbing at your flesh in a strong, bruising grip. He reaches behind him, fumbling for something. You pay no mind to this until a loud smack brings you back into reality.  
His leather belt is in his hand, and he’s bringing it up and down onto your bare back. You can’t feel it but the sight terrifies you. In that moment it’s not Brock who is on top of you, it’s your Dad, bearing down on you, belt in hand. You are 4 years old, cowering against the wall, you know what’s coming…  
Your breath speeds up and suddenly you are panicking, adrenaline kicks in somehow and you manage to clumsily shove Brock off you. He loses his balance and falls to the floor and you stumble upwards. Your legs feel weird and shaky and the room is distorted in a dizzying mix of colour that makes you nauseous, but Brock is clear as day in the middle of it all, on the floor, naked and shocked. You stumble forward towards him but he is up in a second, roughly shoving you back.  
You sense of balance is already compromised and it only takes that to send you tumbling to the floor.  
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing you son of a bitch?’ he cries, towering over your pale, shaking form  
‘I-I’m s-sorry’ you stutter, wide eyed with fear and still dizzy from the high.  
His large meaty fist seems to rise in slow motion, and you turn your head away as it comes towards you and try to raise your hands to protect yourself, but you are moving through jelly. The fist connects with your cheek and somewhere, on another level of awareness you register the pain.  
He grabs you by the arm, one of his hands wrapping around your entire bicep, and pulls you across the floor, your back dragging against the rough carpet. He yanks you up the stairs and you scramble for your footing, almost falling back down. You just manage to get your feet under you as you reach the top, and stagger like a baby deer behind your boyfriend.  
He yanks open the door to his ‘study’ which contains a desk, a computer and tonnes of old football merchandise. You look at him with wide glassy eyes but he just scowls at you and shoves you forward into the room. You catch yourself on the leather desk chair and turn immediately to face him.  
The both of you, you suddenly realise, are still naked.  
‘Don’t you ever touch me like that again you little brat. YOU HEAR ME?!’  
You nod quickly, the movement making you dizzier, and sink to the floor as he slams the door. You crawl under the desk and brink your knees up to your chest, shaking.  
You know you’ve messed up, big time. You know you deserve the punch, you hurt Brock, after everything he has done for you. What if he doesn’t realise it was an accident?  
What if he breaks up with you? You will have nowhere to go, but most importantly you will have no one. You have always sought safety in other people rather than a place. Perhaps it has something to do with your lack of any real, safe haven, your lack of a home; you have always had to be SOMEONE’S favourite person. But you won’t be Brock’s anymore, not after what you did.  
You close your eyes, trying to sink into the high to distract yourself. You want, no NEED another shot. Your body won’t stop shaking and involuntary tears slip unnoticed down your cheeks.  
You feel like a 5-year-old again, hiding tucked away under a table, crying silent and alone, with bruises already beginning to form on your arms, thighs and wrists.  
You hate yourself for never being able to do anything right. Hate yourself for making Brock hurt you. Hate yourself for being so pathetic. And you hate yourself most of all because you know you are addicted to this shit, and you know you will never be able to admit it.


	18. The North Stands For Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries to make up with Steve. Also he should probably work on his people skills.

The North Stands for Nothing

You are five years old and crouched behind the couch, peering round the back. Your Dad is shouting; his voice fills you up so it’s the only thing you can focus on. You have yet to learn to block it out. He thinks your mum is sleeping with a guy from work. You think that’s weird cause you see your mum sleep all the time, she does it on the couch or at the table, or on the bathroom floor and in her bed, but your pretty sure she’s always alone when she does it. She slams open the cabinet door and pulls out a packet of pills, dry swallowing a handful. He grabs hold of her round the waist, spinning her around and knocking the packet out of her hands she screams at him, something about how he wants her to be unhappy. He tosses his beer at the wall and you flinch as it crashes, the liquid dripping onto the tiles and grabbing your mother’s arms. She cries out as he shakes her, his words so loud and jumbled you can hardly make them out. He calls her a bitch, a slut, a whore. He slaps her across the face hard and she cries, sinking to the floor and shaking with the force of her sobs. He tells her it’s her fault. She made him do it. You crawl out from your hiding place and run towards her, teddy in her arms. He always makes you feel better.

‘Mummy?’ you say, trying to keep your voice strong and tremor free; she needs you to be strong for her. You Dad whips round to glare at you.

‘Stay out of this brat!’ he snaps Your Mum sobs harder. ‘What’s wrong mummy? Shall I go get someone?’ Your Dad reaches for you and you back up quickly.

‘I said stay out of this you little shit, it’s none of your business!’ You stay frozen by the door, not wanting to leave your Mum, but not wanting to approach your Dad either. He grabs hold of you and throws you over his shoulder like a rag doll. Your teddy falls to the floor.

‘Mummy!’ you scream ad you kick and punch, you may as well have been a doll for all the good it did. ‘MUMMY!’ you scream as he throws you to the floor in the lounge, you see her turn away, still sobbing in the kitchen. ‘MUMMY HELP!’ you shout as your Dad’s foot comes down onto your ribs again and again. You scramble to your feet and try to run but her grabs your arm and twists you round. Loud sobs escape you, this is before you learn to be quiet. He raises his fist and it connects with you face again and again. Blood drips down like melted butter and mixes with your salty tears as you cry. It gets in your open mouth and onto the collar of your favourite Hulk T-shirt. He drags you to the linen closet and you still struggle against his grip. ‘That’ll teach you to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong!’ your Dad growls as he slams the door. You bring your knees to your chest and muffle your sobs in your arm.

*******************

You wake up to the creak of the door and shoot up so fast you bang your head on the desk. Brock kneels down in front of you, eyes wide and apologetic.

‘I’m so, so sorry baby’ he says softly’ I didn’t mean to hurt you, I was drunk, I forgot how much bigger I am than you. I swear baby it won’t happen again. I lost control that’s all you just made me so angry baby. I didn’t mean to’

You look into his eyes and he looks so sincere, so sad. No one has ever apologised for hurting you before and suddenly you feel stupid. He’s not your Dad, of COURSE he didn’t mean it. It’s like that time, at that party last year. Some guy got on top of Steve whilst he was asleep, started kissing him. You just got so angry, your blood pumping with coke, you saw red. Chased the guy with a knife. The two of you made up, you both understood you were fucked, you didn’t mean to. It doesn’t count when you’re like that, you’re not in control. You nod, a weak smile breaking across your face. You take his offered hand and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping his arm around you.

‘You won’t tell anyone right?’ He asks ‘I don’t want people thinking I’m like that, I’m NOT like that, it was a onetime thing I promise’

You nod rapidly ‘Of course not, you’ve done so much for me. I know you didn’t mean to. I know.’

He smiles and strokes your face, it takes all your will power not to flinch. ‘How can I make it up to you baby?’

You pause, fiddling with your hands. Make it up to you? You weren’t expecting that, you don’t think he NEEDS to, everyone makes mistakes after all.

‘Umm...’ you bite your lip ‘There’s this party, tonight I think, at my friend’s house, I was wondering if you’d come? I could introduce you to everyone, maybe you could talk to Steve?’ You bite your lip, waiting for his response. ‘You don’t have to, of course, just, it would be…nice, I guess’

He smiles at you softly ‘Of course baby, whatever you want.’

Tony still isn’t back, so you text him to say you’ll see him at the party, he asks you to bring some H. Obviously! You reply. You and Brock drive to the party, and it’s nice to not have to worry about the bus. You didn’t have any concealer though, so you self-consciously push you fringe in front of your face. Of course it doesn’t work, you didn’t expect it to.

‘What the fuck happened to you?’ Tony asks as he meets you at the door, cigarette in one hand, beer in the other.

You shrug ‘Bar fight’ you say. ‘Some creep called me a fag and I just kind of flipped. Brock had to rescue me’

And for a moment, only for a moment, it scares you that you have to lie for your boyfriend, like you used to for your Dad. But then you remember it is just this one time. You tell Tony to meet you in the bathroom in 10.

He groans painfully ‘Come on man, I haven’t had anything all day, it feels like there are ants all over me. A smoked through an entire 20 bag this morning alone to try and hold it off!’

You roll your eyes ‘fine, but we gotta be quick, I want to speak to Steve.’

The three of you enter the house, there are cursory introductions, and only a few people seemed creeped out that Brock is like 50, most people don’t even notice, they barely know how old THEY are. The bathroom is being hot boxed, which you should have expected really, so you end up on the floor of the utility. Its tiny, there’s no door, and you have to sit on the washing machine for you all to fit in but it’s the closest thing to privacy you’re going to get.

The two of you set up, Brock declines, leaning against the wall with a cigarette and a bottle of Jack's. ‘Got some coke for later’ he says and you shrug, taking the baggie he offers you.

Your finger is hovering over the plunger, ready for absolute bliss when the sound of glass breaking jerks you out of your stupor.

‘What the hell Bucky?!’ a voice says, a voice you know.

Your dark eyes meet Steve’s blue ones and neither of you move for a second. The two beer bottles he was carrying lie broken on the floor in a pool of the sticky brown liquid. You are at a total loss for words, your brain moving at light speed as you try to come up with an explanation. Steve still stares at you, waiting for you to tell him it’s not what it looks like. Maybe you have diabetes? Yeah right. ‘I – it’s… we’re just trying it out Steve, honest this isn’t like a thing we do I swear, I just, I wanted to see what it was like. It’s just going to be this one time I swear, just to see.’

You stammer stupidly, sounding like a right twat even to your own ears.

Steve shakes his head. ‘Jesus Bucky, what the hell where you thinking!’ He says marching forward and ripping the needle out of your arm. You wince as it rolls under the dryer; you see Tony eye it hungrily.

‘Even for you this is… this is fucking low man!’ Steve shouts, you wince; Steve only says fuck whenhe's REALLY angry ‘And YOU!’ he rounds on Brock who is leaning casually against the wall smoking like nothing is wrong ‘Did you FUCKING GIVE IT TO HIM?’

‘Steve calm down, he didn’t I swear!’ You say as you reach for his sleeve. You barely notice you are lying for your boyfriend for the second time in an hour.

Brock raises his hands ‘Look kid, I couldn’t stop him. You think I didn’t tell him not to? He’s not my property and I can’t forbid him from doing shit.’ He seems so casual, so genuine. Steve pulls himself free from your grip and turns back to face you, shaking his head.

‘Jesus Bucky’ he says, looking at you with eyes so sad, so desperate. You feel your own eyes fill up with tears, and find they can’t meet his. ‘I’m sorry Stevie.’ You sob ‘I’m so, so sorry. I just wanted to feel numb. I wanted to try it. I won’t do it again I swear I won’t. I’m sorry.’

Steve hesitates for a moment and then pulls you into a hug, stroking your hair like you’re a child. ‘Ssh it’s okay’ he says ‘I know you won’t, I know.’ You nod into his shoulder, the guilt overwhelming you. You are not just lying, you are lying to Steve and that is so, so much worse.

‘I’m sorry too.’ He says ‘I’m sorry for not sticking by you, I wasn’t angry at you I swear, I was just…I was scared for you.’

You nod, you can’t bring yourself to speak. You’ve never felt as much like a piece of shit as you do now. You realise he hasn’t asked about your bruises; you realise he doesn’t know you’re not living with your Dad. You don’t tell him, it would just complicate thing. You wonder when lying to Steve became easier than telling the truth.

He lets you go and smiled at you ‘You want to go get a drink, I think the cat stole ours’

You look over his shoulder and see a tabby cat licking greedily at the puddle of beer and the floor. You look over his shoulder at Brock who is watching you with a greedy, almost possessive look in his eyes. You realise he might be jealous, might think Steve means have a drink together together.

‘I- uh’ you hesitate ‘I think I’m going to stay here with Brock for a bit.’ Steve frowns, looking confused for a moment.

Understanding hits him and he rolls his eyes, ‘Right, yeah sure, you stay here, finish what you were doing, no problem.’ He snaps angrily.

‘Steve I- I didn’t mean that! I’m not gonna do H tonight, or ever I swear!’

‘Yeah right, why should I believe you? Your always promising you'll stop all this shit! Has no one ever taught you not to make promises you have no intention of keeping?’ He shouts ‘I feel like I don’t even know you anymore!’

‘Steve!’ you shout after him as he walks away. He doesn’t turn around.

‘Save your empty promise for someone else Bucky, I’m done.’ You stare after the spot he vacated for a minute before looking away. You see Tony on the floor, your needle in his hand, positioning it over his vein.

‘Give me that!’ you snarl, snatching it from his hand.

‘Hey!’ he gasps in surprise ‘You said you weren’t going to take it!’

You look at him incredulously for a second, before sticking the needle in your arm and shooting up.


	19. Fluorescent Adolescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has bad timing...

Fluorescent Adolescent

You know that you gotta stay high for the rest of your life so you can forget the shit you did whilst high.  
Sleazy, sweat and dirt, grit and grime, nosebleeds and unsteady laughter.  
Locked in a cage. Locked in a haze of DRUGS.  
You talk in fluid, unpredictable movements, dancing sloppily. Lights and loud music, broken bottles, angry shouts, knives raised, fists thrown.  
Kisses stolen, condoms fumbled with and forgotten. Worn £5 notes passed around.  
Silver teaspoons, lighters, foil and pipes. Cigarette butts and short shorts, red lipstick, dark nights and high heels. That’s what fucked up teens are made of.  
You count pennies trying to buy food, pushing past crisp notes that are for goods you don’t buy OTC in Aldi.  
The electronic chimes and drum beats force your body to move, your neck to twist, your hand to shake as you stare at them, cracked nails, chipped back paint. Ain’t nothing like 4am and high as the fucking moon. Glowing like it too, a glow borrowed from someone who only comes out in the day, when you are hidden under a blanket, sleeping bag, rug, whatever.  
Who knew you’d all lose our minds?  
You look at kids and think maybe it’s kinder if they die now, like this; easier on everyone.  
Strut round the streets and everyone knows.  
They see the way your hands shake, the way the light burns. They all know about the crazy raves in tunnels and abandoned buildings, the wild house parties with threesomes and orgies and fights.  
Is that a good or bad rep?   
Or both?  
Maybe it’s good to be bad.  
A picture perfect relationship based on getting fucked up.  
And you can forget the way he looked at you if you just focus on the music that builds around you, focus on the feeling of your boyfriends who loves you inside of you.  
You can forget the way your heart broke when you saw the disappointment in his eyes, the hurt. You can forget that you love him, and you have really always known that. And maybe if he had known it too then things could have turned out differently. Maybe you wouldn’t be here, right now, like this.  
*********

Steve’s PoV

You are just turned 9 years old, Bucky is 8. The two of you are on South Shore beach in Spring, the wind is whipping around you and the tide is coming in, so that puddles of water lap at your toes. You are hoping to find dinosaur bones. Bucky said there are no dinosaurs in Blackpool.  
‘No, silly.’ You tell him ‘All the dinosaurs are dead now, but they used to be everywhere, we’re looking for their bones!’  
He wrinkles his nose ‘Why would we want to do that?’  
You roll your eyes and turn away to continue the search.  
You turn around only to find Bucky in the exact same spot he was 5 minutes ago, crouched down in the sand.  
‘What are you doing?’ you groan at him, flopping down onto the sand by his side.  
‘Look!’ he says, brandishing a rock.  
You raise an eyebrow ‘It’s just a rock Bucky.’  
‘Yeah’ he practically whispers ‘But look at the pattern, it looks like a hurricane, and that blob in the middle, that’s a person, caught in the middle of it all. He can’t escape.’  
**************************  
You push through the crowds of drunk and high teenagers, popping pills, smoking joints and drinking beers. They’re all so cheerful it makes you want to throw up. Your breath is coming harsh and fast and everything is too close to you. The room is too hot and the all people pressed against you are suffocating.   
You push out of the front door and collapse onto the cold stone step, your head in your hands. The people milling around outside ignore you.  
That memory replays in your head in HD and you think maybe Bucky was trying to tell you something all along. And you didn’t realise.  
Bucky is, was, has always been caught up in a hurricane. And he doesn’t know how to escape.  
You swipe your hand angrily across your eyes, trying to force the tears back in.  
This is your fault, you ignored his every sign, you dismissed the bruises because he can handle himself. You dismissed his odd behaviour because, well, Bucky is odd. So what if he’s acting a little weirder than usual?  
Bucky, your best friend (love of your life), blood brother Bucky, and he had been slipping further and further away from you for over a year. The worst part is that you noticed, deep down, and instead of pulling him back you pushed him away.  
You think back to that little boy crouched in the sand and wonder where it all went wrong.  
***************************  
You are 10 years old, hanging out at the skate park. Neither you nor Bucky have any friends here (or anywhere really) but he insisted you come. It’s cold and windy and getting dark, and you don’t want to be here.   
Bucky is on his skateboard performing kickflips and railslides he has spent weeks practicing. You stand to the side faithfully as he purposefully rides past the hoard of teenagers smoking against a ramp.  
‘Not bad midget’ one of them calls, and Bucky glows with pride, whilst keeping his expression cool and nonchalant.  
You shake your head as he slides to a stop in front of them.  
‘Yeah?’ he says ‘That was nothing! I can do way more’  
‘Your pretty good for a toddler’ the same guy adds, looking him up and down with a beady eyed gaze. You scowl and step beside Bucky arms folded, trying to look tough.  
‘I’m 10, nearly 11!’ Bucky shouts indignantly.  
Bucky is not, in fact, nearly 11 at all. In fact, it will be another 6 months until he turns 11. You consider pointing this out but decide against it, he might get mad at you.  
The beady-eyed guy pulls out a cigarette from a blue packet that reads Pall Mall like the Monopoly place.   
‘You want one kid?’ he offers, waving the packet in Bucky’s face.  
Bucky hesitates only for a moment before plucking one casually from the packet ‘Sure’ he says, the picture of calm ‘Thanks.’  
************************  
You wonder if perhaps Bucky has been spiralling for years, and it was all downhill from that moment. First cigarette to first drink within days. First drink to first crime in weeks. First crime to first joint in years. First joint to first line to first pill to first shot.  
You wonder, if you had the guts, could you have stopped it? You were too afraid of losing him, your only friend, to confront him. And you admit you even kind of liked it at times. You liked starting high school popular, liked being cool, even if it was just by association. You were selfish, and that blinded you.  
You push yourself up from the step and take a deep steadying breath. You push open the door and head into the house to find Bucky, to do what you should have done all those years ago.   
You were irrational tonight. You pushed him further away by accusing him of lying to you with no evidence he would do so. You were mean. Again.  
You see Tony leaning against the wall in the hall, head angled towards the ceiling, eyes closed and drool running down his chin.  
You push open the door to the kitchen and start speaking in a rush before you are even fully through.  
‘Look Bucky I’m sorry, I should have trusted you I know you’re not that stupid I…’  
You stop abruptly, staring at the sight in front of you. Perhaps you should have expected it.  
Bucky is perched naked on the washer, head thrown back, eyes closed, drool on his chin just like Tony, except unlike Tony a large muscular figure leans over him, his tongue darting over Bucky’s neck. Neither Bucky nor Brock turn to face you, Bucky too fucked and Brock uncaring. A needle lies discarded on the drier, and a chord is still tied round Bucky’s bare arm. You can see track marks dotting the pale skin.  
Your mouth is open and your hands are shaking.  
It takes you another minute to move, but once you do you are running, running from the house where your best friend (love of your life) is killing himself slowly. Where he is dying in the arms of a stranger. You run until you reach the shore, the waves lapping against the sea wall in the dark. You practically fall to your knees in front of it, head coming to rest on the cold stone. It is raining slightly, the drops hitting you gently, more like a caress.  
You stare down at the black water beneath you, your tears dripping into it creating ripples; ripples that are lost in all the chaos of the crashing waves.  
You are beyond the point of sobbing. You feel almost numb, shocked. You stare at the water in a trance, thinking it is all a nightmare. You will wake up tomorrow and realise you are still 8 years old and happy. Except this time, you’ll know what to look out for, you’ll know what to do.  
If you had three wishes it is not your own life you’d change, it is Bucky’s, because (and it really only hits you in this moment) he is your life. He is all you’ve ever wanted, or needed, and now you’ve lost him. And it’s your own stupid fault.


	20. All of the Poison, all of the Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock is kind of a dick, Bucky should have realised this by now.

All of the Poison, All of the Pain

You wake up on the floor of the utility room, your head in a basket of washing. Brock is nowhere in sight.  
You push yourself up and grab your clothes from their crumpled heap on the floor. The room spirals, something you have gotten used to.  
You stick your hand in your jacket’s inner pocket for your kit. You come up empty. You frown and bend down to peer under the washing machine; there is dust, mouse shit, and a sock, but no heroin.  
You swear under your breath as you look frantically around the room, you tip the laundry basket upside down and root though the clothes on your hands and knees; nothing. You stick your hand in the washer, and the dryer; empty. You tip every shoe in the pile by the door up; no luck. You even gum some of the white washing powder in the jar on the shelf, just to check it’s not a stash; definitely not.  
‘Fuck!’ you cry, kicking the dryer and grabbing your hair.  
‘What the shit man?’ someone says, but you ignore them.  
‘Stark!’ you shout.  
‘Shut up’ a voice responds  
‘Stark where the fuck are you?!’  
‘Shit man what?’ he groans, poking his head round the living room door, a cigarette hanging from his hand, topless and disheveled.  
You grab him by the arms and slam him into the wall, growling like a wolf.  
He gasps and pushes at you but the force of your anger holds him in place.  
People poke their heads round the various doors, a guy hits a bong enthusiastically on the stairs.  
‘Where is it you fucker?’ you hiss.  
‘What?’ he asks, scoffing at you as if you are crazy. You’re not. You know the asshat must have taken it.  
‘My stash, you anus. What the FUCK did you do with MY STASH?!’  
‘Jesus Barnes, I didn’t touch it I swear!’  
You scowl, and lean closer, threateningly.  
‘I’ve been here all night, honest. Haven’t I?’ He turns to the room at large.  
People nod ‘Yeah mate he has, seriously’  
You look from the shocked crowed, to Tony’s pale face and back again.  
His eyes are wide and frightened, almost child-like. When you look into them you see the reflection of your Dad staring back at you.  
You drop him instantly, as if burned.  
‘I gotta go’ you say.  
You turn quickly and take a few steps forward, then stop and turn back again.  
‘You – you coming man?’ you say to Tony.  
He hesitates, biting his lip ‘Nah man, my Aunt, she said I could stay at hers for a bit, give it a go you know?’  
‘Yeah, sure’ you nod.  
The atmosphere is thick with tension as you turn to leave again, all eyes are fixed on your retreating figure.  
‘Bucky?’  
‘Yeah?’  
‘Take care of yourself alright man? I’ll text you yeah?’  
‘Yeah, yeah standard’ you smile tightly.  
You thankfully don’t get ticket checked on the train, which is good because you literally have no cash, and you manage to waltz out of the station looking as calm as anyone can whilst in the beginning stages of withdrawal.  
You practically run down Brock’s road and to the front door.  
You try to calm yourself as you knock on the door, breathing deeply and scratching at your skin restlessly so you don’t knock again and appear impatient.  
You’re about to raise your fist again when it opens and Brock appears, leaning against the door frame casually with a beer in one hand.  
‘Oh hey kid’ he says, as if he wasn’t expecting you. You can hear the sounds of the TV and shouting in the background.  
‘You left’ is all you can say, sounding like a small child forgotten at the mall.  
Brock throws his head back and laughs throatily ‘Jesus kid it’s almost noon, you didn’t expect me to hang around all day waiting for you, did you?’  
You don’t reply, you don’t know how to say that yes you did, because that’s what boyfriends are supposed to do.  
Brock gets it anyway; he laughs again ‘You spoiled brat’  
You want to tell him you are anything but spoiled; you didn’t complain when all you got for your 6th Birthday was a CD from the Daily Mail, or when your 10th Birthday present was an ‘8 today!’ card from the gas station. You didn’t even make a fuss when you had to wear your slippers to school for 3 weeks because your shoes got stolen on the trampolines at the park and you couldn’t afford new ones.  
You don’t tell him any of these things, instead you say ‘I’m out, I lost my stash, can I get some more?’  
Brock raises an eyebrow and takes a swig from his beer, still blocking the doorway.  
‘You didn’t lose your stash kid, if by stash you meant the little baggie in your jacket, I took it’  
You frown, confused, why would he give you H and then take it back, knowing he’d have to give it to you again the very next day? It didn’t make any sense.  
‘What, why?’ you ask  
He laughs again ‘Because it wasn’t your stash, it’s mine, and I can only give so much out on tick you know, I’m not made of money’  
You frown, none of this made any sense.  
Sensing your confusion, he grins, shark-like ‘What you didn’t think I was giving it all for free did ya? You’re not that special!’  
You gape at him, completely at a loss for what to say, he’s joking, he has to be. But he looks so serious.  
‘I mean come on kid, I can’t just hand out bags full of free heroin to any Tom, Dick or Harry with a good arse who comes along now can I?’  
‘But’ you choke out ‘But I thought you liked me’  
He scoffs at you like you’ve just told some hilarious joke.  
‘You were a pretty good shag kid, and gave fantastic head, but like? You’re, what, 18? Surely you knew that was never gonna work out as a long-term thing yeah?’  
You lick your paper dry mouth and stare at the man in front of you, casually breaking your heart like it means nothing. There are so many things you want to say, you want to ask him what you did wrong, if this was a regular thing for him, why he kept you around for so long if he just liked your blow jobs, was all this a massive prank?  
But in that earth-shattering moment you can only say ‘I’m 17.’


	21. I am Made of Chalk

I am Made of Chalk

You feel sick as you stand swaying on the doorstep, and for once it’s not drug related. It terrifies you how easy it was for him to trick you into thinking he actually cared; what if everyone has been doing that all along?  
And the saddest part is, though you didn’t expect it, you not surprised. You’ve gotten to the point where you can just say ‘I’m used to it.’ It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, it does, it hurts as much every time, but this time will be the last. You promise yourself that. You will never trust anyone again.  
And as you see the smirk in his eyes you feel yours tear up. Every touch, every kind word echoes inside your head. And it’s not because they matter, it’s because they made you feel like you did.  
And maybe you should have seen this coming all along, because you know that no matter how hard you try you are never good enough, for anyone. Not even a 40-year-old drug dealer.  
It’s like that moment in a dream when you feel like you are falling, the panic, the fear. And you are scared because you don’t know what to do next; you have nowhere to go and, most importantly, you don’t have any heroin.  
You could tell him you hate him (you don’t), you could tell him you never want to see him again (which you do), you could tell him to go fuck himself, you fucking needed him, you still fucking need him (which couldn’t be truer).  
You say ‘But I-I don’t have any money.’  
‘Yeah’ he says, leaning towards you ‘I know that kid’ his breath smells of beer and cigarettes and Doritos, his teeth are yellow and crooked. As you look at him you realise he isn’t ruggedly handsome, he’s a decaying old alcoholic who probably treats every kid that comes along like he treated you. He’s right, you’re not special. You are just a dumb kid. You thought you were mature, cool, grown up, but you no more mature than the 12 year olds you laughed at when My Chemical Romance broke up, or when some 1D guy got engaged. You fell for the first cool older guy who told you what you wanted to hear.  
‘Please’ you say, and you hate yourself for sounding so pathetic ‘just a little more, I’ll pay you soon I promise’  
He grins at you ‘Yeah? You want it, then beg for it.’  
‘Please, I am begging. Please, I’ll do anything!’  
He smirked ‘Come in kid’  
You felt like a weight had been lifted of your chest as he moves away from the door and into the living room. He pauses the TV and flops down onto the sofa. Everyone turns to look at you.  
Brock beckons you over and you move to stand in front of him.  
‘Get down on your knees.’  
You kneel down, and reach for his zipper, your hands shaking. He grabs your wrist and twists.  
‘Not yet’’ he says, shaking his head.  
You nod and he releases your wrist from his bruising grip.  
‘I want you to lick the mud off of my shoes’ he smirks  
You frown in confusion ‘What?’  
The room is silent ‘You heard me kid,’ he plants his foot on your knee ‘lick it.’  
You look around the room at his smirking friends, and then back at Brock’s foot.  
You think about bacteria, you think about heroin.  
You can feel his eyes on you but you don’t look up at him as you lean down.  
Somewhere beneath the craving for release you feel vaguely disgusted by your behavior. You know it’s sick and wrong, but on a more prominent level it makes perfect sense; Brock has the heroin, and this is what Brock wants you to do. So you will do it. And it will be worth it.  
You close your eyes and stick out your tongue.  
The mud is dry and cakey, but moistens as you lick. Bits stick in your mouth and the back of your throat, a bit of grass almost makes you choke.  
You keep your eyes closed and focus on your reward. You think about the feeling you will get when you shoot up, you think of the feelings you will escape.  
And whilst humiliation and desperation aren’t exactly good feelings, when you look at the alternatives (anger, sadness, rejection, desperate, desperate cravings) it doesn’t seem like you got a raw deal.  
The laughter and cheers echo in your ears, and you hear the clicks of cameras. ‘I’m filming it!’ a voice cries. ‘Pretty hot’ says another. ‘Keep going, kid’ says Brock.  
You don’t let yourself cry, don’t let yourself feel the shame, it’s just you and heroin. That’s all that matters.


	22. Death Becomes You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's worth more, dignity or drugs? I think it's the latter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I haven't updated in a while, I've just had so much going on and I just haven't had the time or motivation to write. I write this on a library computer, so it's hard to get time to go; hopefully I'll be able to buy my own laptop so I'll be able to post more reliably! I'm going to post two chapters now to try and make up for it, and I'll try and post another one by Monday if I can!

Death Becomes You

Brock tosses the little baggie of powder at your feet and you scramble to pick it up, not meeting his eyes as you choke out chunks of mud and blades of grass onto the dirty cream/yellow carpet. Your eyes burn with tears of humiliation but you don’t shed them. It physically hurts to hold them in. You stagger towards the bathroom, eyes blurring, but a hand at your elbow stops you.  
‘Where do you think you’re going bitch?’ Brock growls  
You whimper and try to force out a reply but the words won’t come; you don’t understand what’s happening.  
‘Clean up this mess, this ain’t your house to trash’  
You stare at him and then at the baggie, torn between the two things you love most. You need it, now, but Brock needs you (you tell yourself it is not because you’re afraid of him).  
He yanks on your arm and you are forced to the floor, feeling like you are 6 years old again and scurrying to pick up pieces of broken glass only to get your faced smashed into it repeatedly, meaty hands forcing your neck down again and again.  
Your nails scrape the carpet as you grab at the mud, trying to scrape it all into your hands as quickly as possible. Some of it falls out and you have to stuff bits into your pockets so you can hold it all.  
You look up at Brock from the floor with hands full of mud and wide, hopeful eyes. He walks around you, inspecting the floor before coming to a stop directly in front.  
‘You missed a spot.’  
You almost face planted in your haste to pick it up, but couldn’t seem to find it.  
You gasped and straightened up as a boot connected with your nose. You could taste the coppery blood as it flowed onto your lips.  
Laughter echoed in your ears and your cheeks burned as you realised the trick.  
You get to your feet and stand awkwardly for a second, not sure whether or not you’re allowed to leave.  
‘Well what you waiting for? Bugger off!’  
You flinch, and hurry out the room, the laughter echoing behind you. You slam the front door and sort of run/stagger down the street, you have to lean against a wall to stop yourself from falling, the rough brinks scraping your palms.  
You must look truly pathetic.  
You can’t help it; you start to cry. Wet, hot tears run down your cheeks, and suddenly you are sobbing, like you haven’t since you were a child. A tap has been turned on and now you can’t turn it off. Your shoulders shake with the force of it and you are gasping for breath, choking on air. You feel like your heart has been wrenched from you, your mind is poison, all the bad thoughts leaking into your bloodstream until you want to slit your wrists to let it all out. It’s all your fault, what did you do? Why are you so unlovable? Everyone you love goes away in the end, and the common denominator is you. It must all be down to you. You look back at your actions since meeting Brock, maybe you came across as too childish? Too whiney? Maybe he wanted an adult relationship, maybe he got sick of how pathetic you are, maybe you need to grow up for him.  
You slump tiredly against the wall and drop your head into your hands. You have no idea what you’re going to do now; it has just hit you that you have absolutely nowhere left to go.  
You had always planned running away, ever since you were 10 years old but in those scenarios you always stole money off of your Dad, packed a bag full of clothes and headed to Steve’s house. You would stay up late watching movies and playing video games, you would eat junk food and go to the skate park together and stay there until 10, then sleep tip to toe with him like you used to as kids. It would be like a forever sleep over.  
You never planned to be sitting on a street corner, with only a hoodie for warmth, no spare clothes, and no money. You and Steve aren’t even speaking so you have no one to turn to. You are totally alone. You take a deep breath and push yourself up, it takes all your strength to stagger into a nearby alley and throw yourself onto a step by a doorway. It takes you a second to feel the water seeping through your pants. You groan as the smell hits you; it’s just your luck that you have sat right in a puddle of urine.  
You have a more pressing problem to deal with though, so this is shoved aside for later. You pull out your kit and the tiny amount of H Brock had given you. Its isn’t much, it’s not going to last you for more than a day. Your hands shake as you prep but you manage not to drop any; that’s the first stroke of luck you’ve had all day. Or maybe all year. Or maybe ever.  
The bliss overtakes you as the drug enters your bloodstream and all your problems melt away; it no longer matters that your 17, homeless, penniless and covered in piss or even that your boyfriend dumped you and your best friend (love of your life, secret crush) now hates you because you are a total fuck up. In that moment everything is beautiful.  
Of course in a few hours the feeling will fade and you will be left cold, miserable and hopeless. You will have to think about where to sleep tonight, when you’re next going to eat and, most importantly, how you are going to get more H. You might have you lick someone’s shoes clean, or give Brock a blowjob, it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is you will do it because it is worth it. It is worth anything.


	23. Disparity by Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both our capacity for forgiveness, and self-hatred are a lot bigger than we think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes, I don't have a Beta and English is not my first language, if anyone spots anything or wants to help edit, let me know!

Disparity by Design

Your legs are numb and your whole body feels like a block of ice. A streetlight flickers overhead and a police car whines in the distance. A dog barks in a garden net to you and you jump out of your skin, whipping around to face it, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You clutch your chest and slide down against the wall. The dog rattles the fence as it jumps up and down and whines.  
You turn to face it and it looks back at you with big, dark eyes. You smile slightly at the skinny mutt, you always wanted a dog but it would just end up like this one; underfed, cold, bored, and, if it has any sense, looking forward to death.  
You put your head in your hands, you know you want to cry but the tears won’t come. You are numb. Death must be so beautiful.  
The amber glow of the streetlight bathes you, washing away the unhealthy pallor of your skin.  
You had always dreamed of dying with a bang. You wanted your death to be a spectacle, unforgettable, astonishing. Now you just want to die. You don’t care how. It would be so easy. So why can’t you do it?  
Because you’re pathetic. A voice said. Because you’re a coward and nobody wants you. They hate you even more than you hate yourself, imagine that huh?  
You shove yourself up shakily; you need a shot. The feeling is so intense you want to scream. It fills you up, all consuming, drowning you, making your body shake and your eyes water and your brain melt. You need to not think, if just for a few hours.  
You run through the streets, feet pounding heart aching, lungs collapsing, life falling apart.  
And forgetting will never be enough. Because the memories will inevitably float back to you and drag you down. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps and you are panicking. You don’t stop though, because there is only one thing that will calm you down, and you only know one place to get it.  
There is music blasting loudly from inside Brock’s house, and you can hear rowdy laughter. The sound makes you shudder. You are scared, and you want to tell yourself it’s unreasonable because it’s just Andy, but that’s getting increasingly harder as time goes on.  
You can just imagine Steve shaking his head and saying I told you so.  
No, actually you can’t. Steve would never say that to you. And part of you know that of you had just been honest with him, talked to him from the start. Then you wouldn’t be here, standing on Brock’s doorstep in the dark, shaking with both fear and anticipation.  
You know that if you had gone to him at any time before that night, the night when he saw you for what you really were, at any point before then he would have helped you, taken you in even despite his family barely having enough space for themselves. He was kind like that, and his Mum was too. You kidded yourself that you were doing all this only because you had no other option, no one left to turn to. But that wasn’t true, you’ve been doing this all along for yourself, because you liked (like) it.  
And you would be lying if you said you didn’t expect for it to turn out like this. You have always known, perhaps not even so deep down, that this is where your life has been headed for a while now.  
You take a deep breath and knock on the door. That’s it, you’ve made your choice. Steve will never accept you now. And you’d be too ashamed to look at him even if he would.

Steve’s POV

You take a deep breath and knock on the door. You have no idea whether he’ll even be here, but you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t at least try.  
There’s a groan and a stumble and the door slams open.  
Bucky’s Dad’s huge frame stands in the doorway reeking of whiskey and cigarettes.  
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he grunts, his voice gruff from sleep and decades of heavy smoking.  
‘I’m Bucky’s friend. Best friend, actually. Or I was. We had a fight, see, and it was my fault, I sort of fucked up, and I wanted to apologise. I kind of need to apologise so… yeah, um, can I speak to him?’  
The man squints at you blearily and scowls slightly.  
‘Bucky?’ he asks  
‘Yeah.’ You confirm.  
The guy reaches for the door ‘Well he doesn’t live ‘ere.’ He grunts.  
You frown, you know this is his house, you’ve been before. Never when his Dad was in, but you had been a few times, and walked Bucky here plenty.  
You plant your hand firmly on the door as he attempts to shut it.  
‘What the?’ the guy half groans out.  
‘This is Bucky’s house.’ You say with conviction. ‘I know he lives here. I just want to make sure he’s okay, that’s it. I’ll be five minutes tops.’ You reason.  
Bucky’s Dad doesn’t appear to give a fuck about reason.  
‘Look’ he growls ‘The brat don’t live here no more. ‘e fucked off. Ages ago. Haven’t seen ‘im. And you’re obviously not as close as you thought if ‘e didn’t tell you.’ He seems quite pleased with himself as he says this.  
An icy dread fills your stomach. For a moment you don’t move don’t even register as the door is slammed in your face. Your too late. He could be anywhere, he could be dead and it’s all your fault. You shouldn’t have acted like such a dick; should have just talked to him. He was hurting, he needed you and instead of being there for him you pushed him away.  
You feel tears sting your eyes as you stumble down the steps. You can’t see and you can barely breath. You might have killed him. You might have killed your best friend. You love him. You are in love with him and you gave up on him.  
You broke your promise. After 6 years you broke your promise.  
You hit the stairs with a thump, you can’t hold yourself up any longer.  
You broke your promise.

You are 11 years old and walking down the street next to Bucky. He is about 4 inches taller than you and about 100 times better at everything but you’re not at all jealous, no you are in awe of him.  
He bounces the ball on his skinned knee as he walks with effortless ease.  
Where you are pathetic and childish he is cool in every way.  
His hair is long and dark and messy whilst yours is short and thin and blonde. He has a perfectly white, charming smile whilst yours is crooked and unsure. He has a dark purple bruise over one cheeky, sparkling eye whilst you have wide child-like ones that stare up at him with adoration. The kids on the estate, they love him. He’s cool, he’s the best skateboarder, the fastest runner and the best goal scorer of all the kids, even the really big college ones.  
You have asthma and your Mum gets mad if you skateboard because you always graze your knees and elbows. Bucky always gets them to include you in the football matches but you wish he wouldn’t. They only do it because they know it doesn’t matter that you’re useless if they’ve got Bucky. But they never pass to you, even if you’re the only player available. Even Bucky forgets to when he’s caught up playing. You know he doesn’t mean it but it hurts anyway, if you could just practice maybe you’d get better.  
You arrive at the park after school one Friday, eyes searching for Bucky. It’s not an unusual occurrence by now for him to skip Friday’s to ‘hang out’ with the older kids. He’s always said he doesn’t see the point in Friday’s anyway; no one ever concentrates. You point out he never concentrates anyway.  
But today you don’t find him, you want to ask someone but you’re scared, so scared.  
You notice Natasha and a few of her friends sitting on a bench nearby smoking cigarettes and chatting. They will have been here watching their boyfriends and having make-out breaks, they’ll know.  
You stand timidly in front of them, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot.  
‘Yeah?’ she asks with a raised eyebrow.  
You look over your shoulder; no one is watching.  
‘Have you seen Bucky at all today?’ you ask with as much confidence as you can muster.  
She shrugs ‘Nah he’s not come by’  
You nod and thank her. You turn around and smack into a taller body. You freeze as you look up into the piggy eyes of Clint, one of Jamie’s ‘mates’ who for some reason aren’t too fond of you.  
You gulp.  
‘What you doin’ talking to my girl?’ he shouts at you.  
You don’t reply, just look at him with wide eyes.  
‘Lay off him Clint, he was just asking where his mate is’ Natasha sighs ‘Give the kid a break, you think he’d even dream he’d have a chance with me? Besides, I'm not your anything’  
You scowl and straighten yourself up to full height, which admittedly isn’t much. Clint may be bigger than you but you don’t need Natasha to fight your battles, and you defiantly don’t need her to insult you in the process. You’ve always been good at picking fights you can’t win.  
Clint however turns and walks towards his girlfriend and pulls her up, she grabs his hair as he kisses her, and raps her legs around his waist. He keeps his eyes fixed on yours. You grimace and turn away, setting off towards Bucky’s house.  
He’s not there. No one is. You’re scared, really scared. You can’t think of anywhere he could be. What if he was hurt or sick?  
You rush to your house; your mum will know what to do. You have to find Bucky.  
You don’t even look when you cross the road, and a car honks at you. You run all the way down your street and swing ‘round the gate, before coming to an abrupt halfway to the door.  
Bucky is sitting there, eyes red a dark bruise on his cheek. His knees are drawn up to his chest and his feet are bare. He looks at you, and then turns away, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. You have never seen Bucky cry.  
You approach him slowly, like you would a wounded animal, and slowly sink down next to him on the cold doorstep. You notice he isn’t wearing a jacket.  
‘What’s wrong?’ you ask, reaching towards him but drawing your hand back at the last second.  
He just sobs harder.  
‘Bucky?’ you say after a while ‘Please talk to me.’  
He sniffs and sobs loudly, still not looking at you.  
‘The-they took her! They t-took m-my Mum!’ he stammers and cries.  
He hasn’t called his Mum anything but Winnie for over a year now, and you don’t remember him EVER sounding this small and vulnerable.  
‘What do you mean?’ you say, biting your lip as you try to decide what to do.  
‘The police people took her. They said she’d done bad things. They said they had to take her to prison. And it’s all MY FAULT!’ he wailed  
You sigh, everyone on the estate knew Bucky’s Mum dealt, and there were even rumours that she was, you know, a hooker, but somehow, you never expected her to get caught.  
‘It’s not your fault. How can it be?’  
‘The-they came to check on me. The t-teachers s-said I’d been skipping school, and they t-told them about the broken arm and black eyes and stuff. They wouldn’t have found anything if I wasn’t so stupid!’  
You are at a loss as to what to say.  
‘That’s not your fault.’ You settle for ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. If your Mum wasn’t doing bad things in the first place there would have been nothing to see.’  
He wipes his nose and glares at the ground.  
‘Yeah,’ he says shakily. ‘Yeah!’ this time with conviction. ‘It’s all HER fault she’s leaving me with HIM. She gets to escape and I have to stay here. It’s not FAIR! She’s selfish. It’s NOT. FAIR.’  
You’re taken aback by his sudden change of tone.  
‘Don’t be angry. You say ‘There’s no point being angry.’  
He looks down again and scuffs his bare toes against the cracked concrete. He sniffs again and you can see his eyes are still full of tears. He’s shivering in the cold autumn air.  
‘Do you want to go inside?’ you ask  
He shakes his head.  
‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ you try  
Again, a shake of the head.  
‘I’ll umm, I’ll just go and get you a jacket then.’  
He looks up at that ‘No!’ he gasps with such urgency that you freeze.  
‘Please don’t leave me.’ His eyes are so desperate it scares you ‘She left me. Please don’t leave me too.’  
You can tell he’s talking about more than just this instant. You slowly sink down again and wrap your arm around him, pulling him in close to you. He usually hates any sort of physical contact but he buries his face into your shoulder. You can feel him start shaking again, and his tears dampen your coat, but you don’t care. You think he needs this.  
‘Never.’ You say firmly ‘I’ll never, ever, ever leave you. I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.’  
He sniffs ‘Promise?’ it’s muffled by your coat and chocked with a sob.  
‘I promise.’


	24. Do you want me (dead)?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The power of the abuser depends on the silence of the victim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING explicit descriptions of rape ahead.  
> Also English is not my first language, it's actually my third so I'm sorry for any mistakes I make in this fic, let me know and I will correct it, or if anyone wants to Beta it let me know also :)

Do you want me (dead)?

Your legs are shaking as Rollins leads you upstairs to Brock’s bedroom. You hold back the tears of shame and hopelessness. The door locks behind you and you want to scream. He pushes you onto the bed and you fall backward with a thud, completely malleable. You stare at the worn fabric of your jeans.  
‘Look at me, bitch’ he snarls out.  
You lift up your head to look at him with resigned, hateful eyes. He flips you over and yanks down your jeans silently.  
You bite down on the pillow as he spread apart your cheeks; you can’t think, can’t focus on it or you know you won’t be able go through with it. You can’t cry because you know you’ll never stop. If you could describe life in three words it would be: not worth it.  
You squeeze your eyes shut and imagine your underwater, like you used to do when you were a kid and hurting.  
You are underwater, surrounded by nothing but deep blue. A shoal of shining silver fish dart past you, the light reflecting off their scales. One nuzzles your hand as it goes past.  
You feel a burning, ripping pain as he forces himself into you.  
In the distance you can see a whale and its baby, they are so large but so graceful as they glide through the ocean. It opens its huge, gaping mouth and calls out, a mournful sound that you can feel vibrating even from so far away.  
His hand slaps across your arse hard enough to leave a mark, the sharp sting makes your eyes water.  
Some jellyfish wiggle past, they’re tentacles twitching and dancing. Bubbles escape you mouth as you giggle.  
He yanks your head back by your hair, and the pillow comes from your mouth. He is breathless and almost there.  
You hear a dolphin in the distance and turn around to see a school of them darting through the water chirping and clicking cheerfully.  
He comes with a loud groan of pleasure, and slumps hard against your back.  
You try to call them over, but as you take in a deep breath your lungs begin to fill with water; you are drowning. You try to breath it out but it’s too late, it has filled you up. You are breathing in and out rapidly and completely out of control. You are going to die alone, and no one will find your body. Steve won’t know what happened to you, he’ll never know how much you love him.  
‘Jesus Christ!’  
Rollins is standing beside the bed, pulling his jeans on as quickly as he can, he keeps glancing over at you over at you fearfully but you don’t care, you can’t breathe.  
‘Brock’ he shouts as he fumbles to unlock the door ‘Brock the kids having a heart attack or something!’  
Brock pushes past him and into the room. He grabs you by the shoulders and hoists you up.  
‘Pull yourself together kid’ he shouts in your face.  
You just breath faster.  
‘Fucks sake’ he mutters.  
‘Hey! Hey look at me!’ you turn dizzily towards him, your hands and feet are numb and tingly and it’s hard for you to think straight.  
He is holding a little bag of white powder in front of your face. You reach for it sloppily but he pulls it away.  
‘Ah ah ah’ he says shaking his head ‘You gotta calm down first, you calm down and you can have your reward. Now be a good boy.’  
You try get your breathing under control. You list the planets in order. You recite the 9 times table in your head. You think about injecting that heroin.  
‘Atta boy’ he says patronisingly, smirking.  
You want to glare at him, but you can’t bring yourself to. You’re so exhausted, and the tingling hasn’t faded yet.  
He drops the bag onto the bed and you scramble for it.  
‘It’s smaller than usual’ you say without thinking.  
He raises an eyebrow ‘Well I could’ve given you nothing. It’s your punishment for being such a pussy. Keep yourself together next time and it won’t be’  
You stare down at your hands. Next time. You hadn’t even thought about next time, you had just been focused on getting through this time. But then there’s next time, and the time after that, and the time after that until your dead.  
You wonder what Steve would think of you now.

Brock lets you sleep on the couch. You don’t want to, you’re really tempted to say no, but it’s raining and cold and you’re exhausted. It makes you feel sick, lying on that sofa staring at the ceiling and knowing that right above your head is the bedroom where you fucked Brock, and Brock’s friends, and probably will fuck Brock’s acquaintances. You lick your dry lips and roll onto your side, listening to the rain pound against the window. You think about taking a knife, slipping upstairs and stabbing him, you could tell the police that he drugged you and raped you and wouldn’t let you leave. They’d probably say you could have knocked him out and taken the keys. The reality is though that you can leave, you just have nowhere to go. There is a creak from somewhere in the house and you imagine it’s a burglar, and when he finds you in here he’ll kill you. The thought doesn’t make you sad, nor particularly happy. You just feel numb. The idea of death means nothing to you. You don’t care enough anymore. If the house started burning down around you, you wouldn’t get up. But you aren’t going to make any effort to start a fire.  
You wish you could sleep, make the most of having somewhere warm and comfy, but it’s as if you have x-ray vision, and can see Brock smirking at you through the ceiling. You stuff a pillow over your head. He just won’t let you fucking sleep. You think you might feel better if you could cry, but you can’t do that either. It’s as if you’ve forgotten how; the feeling is there, the lump in your throat but you have no idea what the next step is. You squeeze your eyes shut and think of when you and Steve were kids and would share the single bed at his house. You would both bury under the duvet with just the tops of your head poking out like burritos.


	25. How to Save a Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky realises he can't do everything on his own; or maybe he's just too tired to push everyone away.

How to Save a Life

You leave Brock’s house at 4am, before he can wake up. You couldn’t sleep anyway. It’s just stopped raining, and you can’t stay there any longer. You shoot up again before you leave, a dosage higher than usual but you’ve been feeling less and less each time, and you want that feeling you got the first time you tried it. You wish your whole life could be just a series of first times. You are in a trance, and have reached the end of your street before you realise that you don’t live there anymore.  
You stick your hands deeper in your pockets and duck your head down, staring at the cracked grey concrete studded with cigarette butts and chewing gum. You pick up a half-smoked cig off the floor and relight it, like you haven’t done since you were 13 and wonder how this became your life.  
The fag tastes so good and you realise how long it’s been since you last had one. You’ve been so focused on the next shot that everything else just faded into the background; even things you used to be hopelessly addicted to. You realise for the first time how much control this thing has over you.  
You remember the first time you took MD, and how intense it felt. How you couldn’t stop moving, as if there was something inside you that was constantly pushing to get out and if you didn’t give in to it, it would force its way through you and you’d explode. You remember how much you loved everything; it all seemed so fresh and new and beautiful. The memory is dull now, black and white and grey. You close your eyes and replay it all in muted colours. And you cry silent tears that you don’t bother to wipe away. You cry for the person you used to be, for the person you could have become, whom no one ever gave a chance. You cry for the little child who is still trapped and bleeding inside your head.  
You tilt your face up and stare at the sky, at the streetlights and scattered stars. It’s beautiful, and it makes you sad. Everything beautiful makes you sad. It makes you sad because it’s so beautiful and you’re too busy being sad to appreciate it.  
And the pain in your chest is so intense it might be killing you.  
You think that this overwhelming typhoon of sadness is going to kill you before the heroin does.  
You fall to your knees, directly opposite Steve’s house. Your feet have taken you there before your brain could catch up.  
You can see him, through the window. He’s at his desk, lights off, on his computer. It’s 4am and the glow from the screen basks his face, his golden hair and pale skin, like an artificial angel. You can’t help thinking you’ve lost someone who was never yours to begin with.  
He looks up, and you freeze as your eyes meet. He freezes too, and you both remain there, suspended in time and space.  
And then he’s moving, pushing up from his desk, knocking his chair over in the process.  
It takes you a second or two for this to register. He’s dashing out the door, leaving it wide open and swinging on its hinges, by the time you move.  
You’re not ready for this; not now, not ever. You can’ deal with him finding out that you’re not the person he thought you were.  
You think you may have left your stomach behind but you can’t turn back now, and you ache with the emptiness of it. You can hear Steve shouting your name, and he’s so close. Your steps are unsure and wobbly whereas his are strong and certain. He grabs the back of your coat, and you lose your already unsteady footing, the floor rushes up to meet you all too quickly and you gasp in surprise as your chin connects with the concrete.  
‘Fuck, sorry’ he mutters as he pulls you up with ease, despite his small stature.  
‘Buck?’ he breathes, like a prayer.  
You choke on air.  
He turns you around slowly, reverently, like you’re a delicate object in a museum. You imagine you look so shitty you might as well have ‘handle with care’ stamped across your forehead.  
You can feel him wince as his arm wraps around your stomach easily. You’re on your feet and facing him now, unable to meet his eyes.  
‘Bucky?’ he gasps.  
You don’t respond.  
‘What happened to you?’ you can hear the worry in his voice, even though you’re not looking at him, and you realise you must look like shit. You are suddenly hyper aware of your black eye, the way your unwashed clothes hang off your skeletal frame, your lank and greasy hair falling in your eyes and the sweat that coats every inch of you.  
You need to scream, you need to cry, you need to shoot up, you need to die. Instead you just stand there staring, wishing someone would kill you before you kill yourself.  
He lowers you to the ground again, slowly, and you can’t help but be a little irritated that all the effort you put into getting up was for nothing. You close your eyes as he props you against the wall, hoping you’ll just black out. His hand feels your forehead, brushing back your sweaty bangs, and then cups your cheek.  
‘What have you done to yourself, Buck?’ He whispers, and you flinch.  
You put your head in your hands and hold back a sob. Your Dad’s voice rings in your ears ‘Don’t you dare cry, Only pussies and faggots cry, and my son ain’t neither.’  
The two of you sit opposite each other, just sit, for an infinity, and then Steve gets up. You didn’t want him here, but now you’re afraid he’ll leave.  
He puts his hands under your armpits and hauls you up, you don’t even bother to shrug him off as you usually would.  
You walk across the street together in silence, and creep up the stairs to his room like ghosts.  
It is exactly as you remember it; not particularly messy but not neat, it’s the first room you’ve been in in a long time that doesn’t stink of cigarettes and booze.  
You feel sick, like there is a lump in your throat and a weight in your stomach and they need to come out. It’s hard to breath past them, almost painful. You feel like you did that time you were 11 and OD’d on your mum’s anti-depressants. The leaflet said to take a maximum of 200mg, so you took 400. You were fine the next day but for that evening you felt sick and dizzy and your stomach hurt and your throat burned. You remember sitting on your bed crying and cutting yourself. That was three days after they took her away, and marked roughly the beginning of your hugely embarrassing emo phase.  
Steve pushes you onto the bed, and returns with a first aid kit in his hand. You wince slightly as he cleans the cut above your eyebrow, but otherwise you don’t react. You sit motionless on the bed as he pulls off your T-Shirt and patches you up.  
You don’t even meet his eyes when you hear him gasp quietly; you can feel him analysing the way your ribs and collar bones protrude, cataloging the track marks on your arms and the bruises on your stomach.  
A few months ago, you would have pushed him away, insisted you were fine. Now you let him get on with it, like a rag doll for him to play nurse with.


	26. Blonde leading the Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is an angel.

Blonde leading the Blind

You don’t really remember much about what happened, it’s all patchy and blurry. You remember him dragging you to the bathroom and dumping you in the tub, the water from the shower head hitting your head like knives of ice. You gasp, choke and then throw up. You lean over the side of the tub and vomit again and again, it doesn’t seem to want to stop, but you don’t want it to either. It’s like your vomiting all the bad shit out, and it’s landing in a puddle of evil on the bathmat.   
You think Steve’s Mum, Sarah might have come in at one point, with a glass of water and a sympathetic yet disgusted grimace. She probably thinks your drunk.   
Steve brushes the hair back from your face with a wet cloth as you vomit and sob.   
He eventually pulls you out of the bathtub and steers you around your vomit, you flop unhelpfully as he shoves one of his shirts over your head. There isn’t much he can do about the cuts and bruises so he just rubs some cream on them gently. You can hear yourself talking but you can’t muddle through your brain enough to work out what you’re saying; you might be making some excuse; too much to drink, a bad pill. Maybe you gave multiple excuses. Steve just nods and carries on.  
Everything is dark and moving too quickly and you just want him to hold you tight like he used to when you cried.   
He puts you into his bed and you groan and cry, you just can’t stop crying but you’re not really sure why. Every time you close your eyes the world spins and blurs and the ceiling collapses on top of you so you can’t breathe.

You don’t remember going to sleep but you wake up at 12 to Steve rooting through your pockets. You jump up faster than you thought you had the energy for. He doesn’t turn.   
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ you ask   
He finally looks at you, raising an eyebrow. ‘What do you think? My best friend came to my house last night off his face and crying his eyes out saying that he was on heroin and that he ‘didn’t want to have sex with them’ I was more than a little concerned!’  
For a second you think he’s talking about someone else, and that he has a new best friend, and then all of his words filter through your brain. You fall back onto the bed. You can’t believe you said that, what else did you say? You’re suddenly terrified; what if Steve tells someone? What if Brock finds out? You want to cry again; you’re lost and scared and you haven’t felt so much like a little kid for a long time. So much for growing up.  
He throws down your jeans. There was nothing in them; if there had been you’d have taken it already. You feel sick and shaky and disorientated. For the first time in your life Steve’s house doesn’t feel safe.   
‘Fuck’ you mutter into your hands ‘FUCK!’   
Steve, who knows you better than you know yourself, drags you into the bathroom and holds you as you dry heave over the toilet. There’s nothing to come up and it scratches your throat and burns your eyes.  
You straighten up and stare at yourself in the mirror. You haven’t seen yourself in a long time; haven’t brushed your teeth, haven’t even showered for over a week. Your cheeks are gaunt and pale covered with tear tracks, your eyes are ringed with purple, you look translucent, dead.   
You raise your fist and slam it into the mirror. 

 

‘Please’ you mutter as you cry ‘Please’ you don’t know what you’re asking for.  
Steve clutches you to his chest and strokes your back with a tenderness you had forgotten was possible. He’s the only one who has ever held you like this.  
Your mum hugged you sometimes. You remember her knelt in front of you, clutching you tightly and crying into your shoulder begging for money you didn’t have so she could stop feeling like this. That memory soured by her anger at your refusal. She’d given you a sharp slap across the face. Called you useless, pathetic, a waste of space.  
You remember her stroking a hand down your face and looking at you with such tenderness it warmed you inside, even though the heating was broken. That memory was soured by the blood that steadily dripped from her wrists onto you.  
You remember her holding your hand in hers and rubbing her thumb across the back, staring with intense adoration. That memory was soured by her stabbing a needle through it, before taking it out again and stabbing it right through her own, telling you how the pain bonded you, made you one.   
You don’t however have any memories of her holding you in her arms and stroking your hair whilst you cried, whispering comforting words that you aren’t even listening to.  
You never used to cry in front of Steve, but you wished you had done so more often; you’ve never felt more at home than now, pressed up against his bony chest, with his arms around you, drinking in his warmth like a drowning man clutching to a life vest.   
You cry harder because you don’t deserve this, and any moment now he’s going to realise. He’s going to finally see you for what you really are, and he’s going to hate you. He’s going to leave you, like everyone else has left you. You’ll be totally alone, unloved, unlovable.  
Someone opens the door, but Steve says something and they leave again. You wish you could shed your skin, slither out of here into a dark whole where you wouldn’t have to face the reality of what you have become.   
You look up at him, eyes blurred with tears, and he looks like God.  
‘Please.’ You repeat, still not sure why.  
He nods at you sincerely.   
‘I’ve got you.’ He says softly ‘I’ve got you Buck’  
The way he says your name sounds like a prayer.


	27. Ache with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even Captain America can deal with everyting alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while, I left all my summer work to the last minute AND I spilt water all over my laptop and damaged the hard drive so I lost loads of stuff that wasn't backed up, and i can't afford a new one atm :_( to top it all of I'm locked out of my FictionPress account for some reason :/

Ache with me 

You are 13 when Bucky’s mother dies. He comes to you at around 8 o’clock, face emotionless. He stands on your doorstep and rings the doorbell, subdued and quiet. Your mum answers and he asks politely if you can go to the park with him. To most this would seem normal, but you know Bucky, and Bucky is not polite.  
You push past your mother before she can tell you it’s too late, and Bucky gives her a tight smile before turning to follow you.  
He tells you as if he is announcing the weather.  
‘My Mum died today’ he says matter-of-factly.  
You stop and stare at him in shock, it takes you a moment to realise he hasn’t even paused, and you have to quicken your pace to catch up. You have no idea how to respond; you could never be this calm if it was your mother.  
‘I’m sorry’ you say earnestly.  
‘Don’t be.’ He shrugs ‘What the hell am I going to put on her tombstone anyway? Here lies Winnie, devoted stripper and abuser, may she rest in peace. That’ll go down well at the funeral’  
He doesn’t even look at you, just carries on walking. You follow him, you know he wants to leave it alone. You know him better than you know yourself; if this were you there would be tears and breakdowns, but this isn’t you. Bucky is strong, he’s dealt with so much shit already. His way of dealing is to forget; he wants to go to the park with his skateboard and mess around like you did when you were kids. He wants to wind back time and pretend you’re 8 again. Later, at maybe midnight, he’ll smoke a joint with some of the older kids, and you’ll watch him silently and just be there. He’ll sneak back in to his flat at 4am when his Dad is asleep, too exhausted to stay up and stew. If tomorrow is a good day, his Dad won’t acknowledge him, if it’s a bad day, he’ll be furious. Your Mum will be angry either way, except when your mum is angry you get a lecture and lose Xbox privileges. Bucky will get a black eye and a cracked rib.  
By the time school comes around on Monday, it’ll be like nothing has changed. 

********************

This is not something you can deal with. You’re not used to not knowing how to help him. From the moment you met you were inexplicably tangled, trapped together in a net. It was like you were linked, and you could always work out what he needed. Now, he is spiralling, caught in a tornado neither of you can control.  
You watched him slip away from you, and though he is here now, shaking and sweating in a heap on your bed, you feel like there is a fence between you that you can’t unlock and you can’t climb.  
He groans and twitches. You close your eyes, and though it kills you, you turn away.  
He kicks his legs, tosses and turns. You hear him groan again, and this time it turns into a sob.  
‘Steve!’ he cries out ‘Steve please!’  
You know what he is asking for, and it’s not something you can give him.  
‘Steve please’ he whimpers. He’s clawing his way across the bed towards you, his eyes barely open but desperate, He looks sub-human, like a zombie from Call of Duty, with his sallow, pale cheeks and bruised, half-lidded eyes, vomit and saliva dribbling out from beneath his swollen lips.  
You turn away again, and clench your eyes shut tightly. You feel his thin, shaking fingers clasp your shoulder but you shrug him off, You feel a tear slip down your own cheek.  
‘Please Stevie, it hurts.’  
He flops to the floor next to you with a groan, and attempts to crawl to the door.  
You grab him under the arms and heave him up.  
He kicks out and screams ‘Please Stevie, please. I just need one more, just one more shot, PLEASE. One more and then I’m DONE. I PROMISE! PLEASE I JUST NEED ONE MORE!’  
The scariest thing is, for a moment you consider letting him. He’s done so much already, what can one more dose do? He’s hurting, and it’s hurting you to watch.  
And anyway, he’s his own person, why is it your duty to keep him here?  
But you know that you’re kidding yourself; you would never, could never turn him away. No matter what he does or says to you, you will always help him, because you will always love him.  
‘Why are you doing this to me?’ he cries ‘Why do you want me to hurt? I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU AND I WISH I NEVER MET YOU!’  
The words sting, but you ignore them, it’s not him, it’s the drugs you tell yourself. But you can’t dismiss that nagging voice of insecurity saying that the drugs are lowering his inhibitions, making him speak the un-doctored truth.  
He snarls at you as you dump him on the bed, and attempts to slap you weakly. You grab his wrist and force it down easily.  
You then flop back to the floor and it starts all over again; he pleads, you refuse, he tries to escape, you put him back, he tells you he hates you, you ignore him.  
It’s hours before he drifts into an uneasy sleep. You’re exhausted. You haven’t slept in more than 15 minute increments since Bucky arrived, 2 days ago now you think; time has started to melt and blur together.  
‘Steve?’  
Your eyes snap open. Your Mum is at the door, pale and worried looking.  
‘Can I have a word?’ she asks, quietly.  
You glance at Bucky’s sleeping form behind you. He twitches slightly, and his neck jerks to the side uncomfortably.  
‘He’ll be alright for five minutes’ she says in a tone that leaves no room for argument.  
You pull yourself up tiredly and sway slightly as the room spins. Your eyes ache with the effort to keep them open.  
You don’t close the door when you step outside.  
Your Mum turns to you, a strange mixture of sadness and anger on her face.  
‘Don’t think for one minute that I don’t know exactly what’s going on in there, with him.’ She says.  
You wince as Bucky’s hand spasms and wacks the bedside table hard.  
‘Steve.’ Your Mum breaths. Your eyes snap back to her. ‘When was the last time you slept?’  
You shrug and bite your lip as Jamie groans in his sleep.  
‘Go to sleep.’ She says, and you feel like a kid again ‘Take my bed.’ You frown at her and open your mouth to tell her exactly how stupid that is.  
‘Don’t argue with me Steven Rogers. I’ve known that boy for as long as you have, I care about him too, and I can see that we HAVE to take him to the hospital.’  
Your mouth stays open; the truth is you hadn’t even considered a hospital. The truth is you’re vaguely affronted by the suggestion that anyone could look after him better that you. They may be trained professionals, but no one loves him like you do. NO ONE.  
‘Steve, sweetheart, this thing, it’s not like the flu; he’s not going to just get over it on his own. He needs help. He needs professional help to get to the core of his…issues or he’ll relapse. You can’t deal with this on your own. He wouldn’t expect you too.’  
You can’t help but think that he would; it’s always been Bucky and Steve against the world. You feel like a traitor, but you know she’s right. You are WAY out of your depth here.  
You don’t realise you are crying again until she pulls you into a hug. You just stand there, clutching her in a way you haven’t done in years, and didn’t realise you missed.  
Bucky groans again and his whole body spasms.  
Your mum shakes he head sadly, and you realise she has watched Bucky grow up and fall apart right along with you.  
‘I’ll call an ambulance’ she says.  
‘I’m sorry’ you whisper as she turns. You don’t know who to or what for, but it’s true.


	28. The Downfall of us All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is fighting for Bucky, except Bucky himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted in a while, I spilt water on my laptop and damaged the hard drive so I lost like half my work. Between school and other shit, I've not had much time.  
> Warnings in this chapter for (obviously) drug use, alcohol, and brief mentions of child abuse.

The Downfall of us All

Bucky's downfall comes in three parts; when his Uncle touches him for the first time on the sofa, whilst his parents are at the pub; the first time he gets high and realises how much better everything is when he doesn't have to think; and the first-time Steve smiles at him and he realises he is hopelessly in love with his best friend, who cannot ever love him back.

He first realises he may have a tinsy (very large) problem with, well, control, when he is 13. He is alone in the house, his mum freshly buried and his Dad who knows where getting drunk with his buddies. Your drunk too, have been since the funeral. You are so drunk, in fact, that you stagger into the side table in the hall and knock over a lamp. You know the consequences of breaking something; they usually involve something else breaking, perhaps your jaw. The alcohol does little to dull the fear that flashes through you. You bend down to hastily pick up the pieces, hoping you Dad won't notice. Your hands brush something plastic that turns out to be a small baggie of white powder. You snatch it up. You know it must have been your mums, hidden masterfully in the now broken shaft of the lamp; she used to deal on the side for her dealer when she couldn't raise the money to indulge herself. You don't know what it is, and by this point, it must have been at least 2 years old, but you pour the contents onto the table anyway.

The rush only lasts about 10 minutes, and it burns up the inside of your nose, but its 10 minutes that don't hurt so much, 10 minutes you want to have again. And so you let yourself. Again, and again, until you end up here, lying in a hospital bed disorientated and aching and lost and alone. And you cry silently for the little boy who only wanted to stop the pain.

The heart monitor beeps erratically, and a kind-faced nurse who looks a bit like your Aunt comes in. Her lips move but the words are slow and muffled.

'You're going to be ju-'

'-mped up little shit I'll ki-'

''nd what do you th-'

'-ree times the safe d-'

'-o you ever think about anyone but yourself?'

'I'll never, ever, ever leave you. I'll always be here for you, no matter what. I promise'

You jerk back to the world again, your face wet and the room empty. Your throat feels raw, like it's been scraped out with a spoon, your eyes are heavy and gritty, and every inch of you, every limb aches.

 

Recovery isn't what you expect. They ask you to see a psychiatrist, you say no. They offer you drugs, you say yes. They ask you if you have anywhere to stay, you lie.

Through it all they watch you with sad, pitying eyes, silent judgement, and you watch them right back with anger and resentment. The train keeps going down the track. The night is the hardest time to be alive, and 4am knows all your secrets.

On the day you leave, Steve is there, waiting with a forced smile and a Diet Coke. His Mum is in the car behind him, purposefully not looking, allowing you some privacy as you stare at him in shock.

'You look better' he says.

You saw yourself in the mirror this morning, and you know you look like shit, so you don't want to think about how you must have looked before.

You stay silent. He reaches out to take your paper bag of meds, and your hands brush; warm fingers of life on the cold ones of the dead.

You don't ask him why he's here, afraid if you do he'll leave, afraid if you do your voice will crack.

You climb into the car beside him, and his Mum smiles at you softly in the mirror. No pity, no judgement.

You hate it. You want to get out. You need the inhaler that is in your bedroom; you don't have asthma but you stole it off Steve once when you thought you might have given yourself it from smoking too much, it turned out that the difficulty breathing, the way your breath caught in your throat and the room never held enough air, was due to an entirely different issue.

Steve looks over and smiles at you again, and you are forced to turn away from the kindness you don't deserve but want to oh so badly.

He swallows loudly and meets his mother's eyes.

'You can stay with us as long as you need Buck, you know that right?'

You turn sharply to look at him, and bite your lip to keep yourself from crying. You never used to cry, especially not in front of people, but recently you seem to be so full of tears they just have to spill out, as if all those you've kept in for so long are finally escaping.

'I promised, remember?' Steve says 'I'll always be there for you, no matter what.'

And that's too much, you can't, you just can't anymore. How is he still here? How is he still glowing like the fucking sun in the shade of all your deep, oppressing darkness? How is his promise still standing beneath the force of your constant punches? How can he still look at you with love?

You hate yourself even more as he reaches over to stroke your back. You hate that you will never, ever deserve him. And you hate that it's your own fault.


	29. The Beautiful People are Ugly too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is not for the people who need it, but for the people who want it. And Bucky isn't sure he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any mistakes, let me know so I can improve :) I welcome all comments!

The Beautiful People are Ugly too

Steve takes you to his bed when you get back. You hurt all over, and your mouth feels like something has died in it. You want to die. Maybe you want to be exceptional and dead.  
'Do you know what you've done?' Steve asks you.  
You turn to face him, he looks scared and lost. You push away the guilt.  
'Of course, I always know exactly what I'm doing. You just can't understand that not everyone is as perfect as you.' It's harsher than you intended, but you want to, need to drive him away. He can't be here, he can't waste his life trying to stop you from fucking up yours. There's no way that would work anyhow.  
He doesn't storm off though, he just smiles sadly and shakes his head, then passes you a cup of water.  
You want it, you really do, you want him. You want to curl up with him on the bed, wrapped up in him with his Nintendo DS and a bag of crisps. You want to wind back time to when you could love and were lovable. Now it's just hurt and pain and heroin.  
Steve puts the cup down again. The silence is smothering. You hold in a scream.  
You feel like this should be it, this should be a defining moment, that you should cry and apologise and STOP. But all you feel is numb, and all you can think about is getting out of here and getting a hit. Steve has not given up on you, but you've given up on yourself. You gave up on yourself a long time ago.  
You want to shake him, scream in his face that it's hopeless, he should just leave, he's only going to get tainted by your filth if he stays. He's the last clean thing you have left, and you can't lose that.  
You don't scream. You don't do anything. You just lie, useless and pathetic as always. A waste of space, a waste of time, a waste of air.  
You wish for death, but you can't be bothered to do anything about it.  
And so, you cry. You cry, and you can't stop yourself. You never used to be a crier, you learnt a long time ago that crying just makes it worse. And when you live with that constant knot of fear in your stomach, it becomes pretty easy to bury everything else.

Your shoulders shake, and you gasp for breath.  
Steve reaches out to touch you and you just cry harder because you don't deserve him, you don't deserve anyone.  
You think now you've started crying, you'll never stop.  
You wonder what that unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach is, as though a hand is twisting your intestines. You've been so numb, for so long from the heroin, that you forgot what it was to feel. It's hit you know, like a wrecking ball, and it hurts. God, it hurts. It hurts more than the withdrawal, more than anything your Dad has ever done to you. It hurts so damn much and there's nothing you can do about it, no quick fix, except more heroin. That's what you need. That's what they don't understand. No one is letting you have the cure, and you think that without it, these feelings just might kill you.  
******  
You feel like you've gone back in time, not forward. Except last time around you were Bucky: popular, good looking, athletic, bad boy, and this time you are Bucky: worthless, zombified, hopeless junkie. The counsellor the hospital sends you to see makes you feel about 2 feet tall, but Steve makes you go to every session. He gives you leaflets about drug addiction, with before and after pictures of crack heads and dope fiends. You already look like that, so it doesn't exactly inspire a great thirst for change. He talks to you about moving on, and healing, and how he understands what you are going through. You totally call bullshit on that one.  
He brings out all your old case files and talks about your Mum, and how her death affected you.  
'She was a bitch.' You say. 'When my Dad threw me through the coffee table, and then beat me with the table leg, know what she did? She drew the curtains so the neighbours didn't see. Her death affected me only cause I couldn't skive school to 'visit' he anymore.'  
'I'm sensing a lot of anger' he says  
'Yeah? Well you'd be angry to if some middle-aged, overweight guy with a receding hairline, who wears loafers cause he thinks they're hip, wasted an hour of your day twice every fucking week to ask you stupid questions about things that happened years ago, when he clearly doesn't give a shit whether you love or die.' You tell him evenly.

 

'So you feel abandoned? Alone?' he says with a smirk, as if he's trapped you in a corner. Luckily you are somewhat of an expert in fighting your way out of corners.  
'Oh well done!' you cry 'My mother is dead, my father hates me and kicked me out, my boyfriend only wanted me for sex, and my best friend only keeps me around because he pities me. And you got lonely from that? Yeah that degree in psychology was defiantly worthwhile.'  
'I sense that you're afraid of opening up to people. You've been hurt so many times, you would rather push everyone away than risk your trust being broken again.' He writes as he speaks, not even bothering to look at you.  
You scoff 'Look Freud, all this psychology bullshit your sprouting is just that, bullshit. You don't know me, you don't know how I feel. I DON'T CARE that my Dad hates me, the feeling is mutual. I've already told you I don't give a flying fuck about my mum, and Brock? Well the sex was good for me too, it's not as if I wasn't getting anything out of it. Jokes on him, I got free sex, and free drugs, He just got the one. Besides, I'm not exactly above using a guy for sex either; he played it well, there's only respect hear, man.' You lean back with a triumphant smirk.  
'And your best friend? He asks, looking and you smugly.  
'What?' you scowl.  
'You failed to mention your best friend in that little speech, the one who pities you, Steven, isn't it?'  
You huff, and school your expression into one of disinterest. 'I don't need anyone's pity.' You tell him coldly.  
He nods, looking thoughtful, and still irritatingly smug.  
'So why do you stay?' he asks calmly.  
'What?' you bite out, surprised, finally at a loss for words.  
'I asked you why you stay. You say Steven just wants you around because he pities you, not because he likes you, or would miss you if you weren't around. You said you don't need his pity, and you clearly don't want to be here; so, my question is, why are you still here James?'  
'It's Bucky.' You spit out.  
She continues to look at you expectantly.

You sigh in frustration.  
'Look,' you say 'I'm nearly an adult now and I've never actually had a real family. My mother cared more about drugs than me, my Dad hated me, and my brief stint with a foster family was disastrous.'  
'Tell me about that' he says  
You roll your eyes 'They sent me there cause I was missing too much school; my mum was in prison and my Dad was always 'working' so they figured I needed someone to make me go. They put me with this dude called Phillips or something, an ex-army guy. It worked out for a little bit, but they had this birth child, Peggy, we were the same age and we were at school together, so I guess it was supposed to help. Anyway, it didn't. I made friends with some guys that they didn't really like; this creepy German dude called Zola who loved to 'experiment'. Peggy saw all this shit happening, and because she's just a stand-up dame, she ran back to Daddy. He, of course, decided I was bad news. He talked about how sorry he was, but my being there was bad for Peggy, and it just wasn't going to work out. That's when I realised I could never have a real family. People will pretend to include me, but no one is every going to put me first. I don't mind that, I'm used to it, it's no big deal, I just figured that staying with Steve right now, letting him help me, even if it is just out of pity, at least gives me a taste of what it's like to have someone look after you. I don't want to become an adult never knowing what that's like.'  
You meet his eyes with a sad, lost puppy look. Yeah you totally skipped over the fact that you are totally in love with Steve, and will hold on to him for as long as you can, but there was some truth in there, best to keep a lie as close to the truth as possible right? The whole foster-home story? Totally true; the only lie was the last bit; you know it's already too late to have a family, too be loved. You gave up on that idea a long time ago. You know why you're sticking around, even though every muscle in your body is screaming at you to run, to find a shot, to find sweet oblivion. You're here because the universe has given you one last chance; you know Steve can never love you, but at least now you can give him some closure; you can allow him to move on knowing he did everything he could for you.  
The counsellor eats up your words though; he talks about you finally opening up, about getting to the root of the problem. He talks about using drugs to quell the loneliness, and how it's so good that you've finally admitted to yourself that you do feel betrayed by the adults in your life. He tells you that you have taken the first step towards recovery, the toad is long, but you won't be travelling it alone.

You smile and not and look the prefect mix of scared and hopeful. You allow him to tell Steve how well you're doing, and how much progress you've made, and you allow Steve to pat you on the back and buy you a milkshake. And every proud smile he gives you kills you a bit inside, because you know that there is nothing for him to be proud of. 'Recovery' is bullshit, because there is nothing decent left of you to recover.


	30. Land of Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Addiction is a disease that makes you too selfish to see the havoc you created, or care about the people whose lives you've shattered.  
> Recovery is a battle, and losing means death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for implied/referenced self-harm.

Land of Confusion

It’s 4 am, and you’re sitting on the window ledge in Steve’s room, staring out at the street below. It’s dark and quiet. A strange fog hides the moon, and there are no streetlights on the estate. An eerie darkness coats everything like a blanket. The dark is a blessing and a curse. You can hide in the dark, but it also hides others from you. You hear Steve come to stand behind you, feel his warm breath on your neck, but you don’t look round, though you can’t supress the involuntary flinch that is trained into you when someone stands in your blind spot.  
‘Maybe thinks would be easier if we knew why we were, here and how we fit into this filthy, damned world.’ You whisper. ‘But as it is, we have no clue. Especially me, and probably you, too.’  
You turn to look at him, then, and his eyes meet yours. For a moment, things almost feel ordinary, you almost feel the connection that you used to, the connection that only comes from knowing someone better than you know yourself.  
Then it’s gone. And you turn to the window once more,  
‘I don’t cry about it anymore.’ You continue. ‘I don’t care that I’ll never know love. How can they love what I won’t let them touch? And how can I expect anyone to see past the filth and the hate, and the pain when I can’t even do it myself?’  
‘You’re wrong.’ He says but doesn’t elaborate. ‘Come back to bed.’  
You look at him again, and an understanding passes between you as your eyes meet.  
‘I can’t.’ you say.  
He looks desperate and lost, he looks how you have been feeling for so long. Now you just feel the calm that comes with finally knowing what to do.  
‘Please don’t leave.’ He says.  
‘You know I can’t stay.’  
He looks at you fully, at the fresh cuts on your wrist, bubbles of blood crusty and dry still there, at the dark circles, and pale skin, at your resolute expression.  
He takes in your ragged appearance, at the emptiness behind your eyes, and you can see the beginnings of resigned understanding creeping into his expression.  
Your hand reaches into your pocket, and you pull out the small baggie of white powder that you snuck out to buy just a few hours ago. It’s already half empty.  
Steve closes his eyes and sighs. His expression is hurt, defeated.  
You feel bad, but this is what you needed to do. You needed to give him hope that you would recover, and then dash that hope before it could fully grow. It was the only way you could think of to make him see that you weren’t worth the effort, there is no hope for you, and all you will bring him is pain.  
‘I thought we, you,’ he corrects himself ‘were making progress.’  
‘Yeah.’ You say gently ‘I know you did.’  
You get up slowly and pick up your bag, already packed on the floor. You see the pain written in bold type on his face as he realises you planned this all along. He doesn’t stop you as you walk down the stairs and to the front door.  
Your hand is on the door handle when he reaches the stairs.  
‘Wait!’ he shouts.  
You pause and turn to face him.  
‘I know what you’re doing.’ He tells you. ‘I know you want me to give up on you Buck, but I won’t.’  
You suck in a breath.  
‘You’re not ready yet, I see that now. We can’t force this, you have to want it. I KNOW. But I also know that you will want it. I know that because I know you, and I know this isn’t you, not really. It’s been this way for such a long time that even you’ve forgotten. But I never will. I’m going to get you back, Bucky, no matter how long it takes. I’m going to get you back because you’re my best friend. And I DO care. When you’re ready, I’ll be here. Cause I'm with you 'till the end of the line’  
He turns and walks back towards his bedroom, back straight, head held high. Strong in ways you have never been. The conviction in his voice has stunned you; you thought for sure he would have given up. You’re half frustrated by his stubbornness, and half touched by it. You are 100% guilty.  
Best friend, he said. If only that was enough for you. How can he not see how you look at him? His words are roaring in your ears. It’s everything you wanted but didn’t want to hear. Everything you know was too dangerous to have been said.  
You want to say something in response, want to finish it and crush him once and for all, or turn round and let him win.  
But you’re not brave enough to do either, you can’t save him or yourself. Instead, you run. You run out the door and into the darkness. Run from your last hope, and your biggest regret. You can’t breathe, and you can’t see, and you can’t help but think you’ve made a terrible mistake, but you don’t stop running.  
This is it. The weight of what you’ve done nearly crushes you. This is the point of no return now.  
You have to stop to consider what you have lost. Steve, who means more to you than anyone else in the world, Steve, who is the first and the last person you will ever truly love. Steve, who even now won’t give up on you.  
He said he knew he would get you back, but he was wrong. You know you’ll never see him again, know it like you know your own name. You also know that it is for the best, that if you had stayed you would only hurt him worse. You know that you are nothing but trouble, that you only bring pain. And, as you squat in that deserted ally, needle pressing into your skin, you know exactly how this will end.  
You stare up at the pitch-black sky, and the silent, empty darkness feels like a prophecy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, this isn't the end for Steve and Bucky.


	31. All Kinds of Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Steve could have his life again, he'd find Bucky sooner so he could love him longer, and he'd tell him every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get two at once because it's my birthday and I'm feeling nice!  
> Reviews are a good present ;)  
> Sorry for the ethics rant part way through! It just sort of came as I wrote, I guess it's kind of to establish how lost and confused Steve is.  
> Warning for implied child abuse.

All Kinds of Everything

Steve’s P.O.V.

You sit down heavily on your bed, drained of energy and suddenly more tired than you can ever remember being. The world around you seems cold and empty. Despite your bravado earlier, the fear sits lie lead in the pit of your stomach, making you want to vomit. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t supposed to happen, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. And you’re so, so angry at him for not even trying, and so, so angry at yourself for not noticing that he wasn’t. You're angry at his parents for fucking him up, and your mum for never stepping in and doing anything, you’re angry at Tony for facilitating him, and at his stupid pervert boyfriend for giving it to him in the first place. You are so, so angry. But mostly you’re just sad.  
You wonder if you are a bad person. What even is a bad person? An action surely can’t be good or bad in and of itself; anything can be justified. If Bucky was to turn around and kill his father or that pervert Brock, that would be a justifiable deed, but isn’t killing bad?  
Surely the intent can’t make an action good or bad either; your mum always says that everyone always has a positive intention behind their behaviour, even if it doesn’t seem positive to you.  
So, the only way to determine the goodness of an action is to look at the consequences, which are unpredictable, and can only be seen after the fact.  
This, then, leaves no basis for a guiding ethical system.  
Is there a perfect ethical system? How can you even say what is good or bad?  
Why is Bucky wrong for doing heroin? Because he is hurting himself? But he was hurting anyway, he would say he is trying to stop the pain.  
Are you right or wrong, then, for trying to stop him?  
You realise that your brain is cycling through one confusing thought after the other, and suddenly you don’t seem to know anything anymore. You used to be so sure that you knew what was right, and what was wrong, but nothing seems static anymore.  
You lay your head down on your arms, feeling so, so drained, emotionally, and physically, and you cry. It starts slowly, and before you know it you’re taking great gulping breaths of air between gasping sobs, loud and obnoxious, your whole form shaking with them.  
You hear hurried footsteps, and your mum comes in, hastily tying her dressing gown around her slight frame. A cursory glance around the room, where Jamie no longer resides, tells her everything she needs to know.  
She sits next to you, pulling you close to her chest, with her chin resting on your head, stroking your hair gently and rocking you back and forth like you’re a baby.  
You don’t protest or pull away, but you cry harder, as it dawns on you that no one ever did this for Bucky; his mother never held him whilst he cried, or gave him any sort of comfort. Your throat is raw, and your eyes hurt, your t-shirt clings to your back with sweat, and you feel like you could vomit. A primal scream tears its way through your throat, shocking even you, but still, she holds you. And as she does, you realise that you have no idea what to do, how to help Bucky. You also realise that you love him so, so much, and you would do anything to let him know. Because he doesn’t. No matter how embarrassing it will be, even though you know he will turn you away, will laugh in your face, you have to show him that he matters. You’ve taken that for granted, always knowing you were important, that your mother loves you, needs you. You know that you are the most important person in her life. Bucky has never had that. He has been led to believe he’s nothing by everyone, and you are filled with the overwhelming desire to demonstrate that he means EVERYTHING to you. It’s all that matters. Forget good, and bad, forget ethics, and the meaning of life, and death, and God. All that matters is to love and to be loved. And you will love Bucky 'till the end of the line, even if it destroys you, because it is worth it.  
********  
It’s the last day of school before Christmas, and you’re 8 years old. You’re making Christmas hats, decorated with tinsel that you had to bring in from home. You’re showing off yours, because it is multi-coloured with little stars on, and is definitely the best. DumDum is begging you to lend him some, and you’re mum always told you to share, so you go to look for some scissors.  
As you make your way towards the craft trays, you notice Bucky sitting in the corner, doodling on a scrap piece of paper. You cheerfully make your way over to him, your tinsel wrapped around your neck like a scarf.  
‘Do you like my tinsel Buck? Mummy and I got it from Tesco' you tell him happily.  
‘What’s your tinsel like?’  
He scowls at you, and you frown, taken aback.  
‘I didn’t bring any stupid tinsel, okay?’  
You bite your lip, not sure whether to be angry or sad.  
‘Why not?’ you settle on asking.  
‘Because I don’t want to make some stupid hat for some stupid holiday, just cause some women got herself knocked up and didn’t want to admit it.’ He spits.  
You scowl now, deciding to be angry.  
‘It’s not stupid!’ You tell him, nearly stomping your foot. ‘It’s about Jesus, who was God and did really good things and died for us. And it’s fun because there’s cake and music, and Santa brings presents!’  
The teacher gets up with a sigh as you begin to raise your voice and lazily begins to make his way across the classroom.  
‘It is too stupid! Santa doesn’t exist, and neither does God or Jesus!’ Bucky shouts.  
The entire class stops and turns to stare, even Mr Collins freezes in place.  
Your bottom lip trembles, and you feel your eyes well up with tears, but you remain upright and angry.  
‘That’s mean. They do exist, my mummy said so. Don’t they Mr Phil?’ You turn to Mr Collins, whose eyes widen, looking trapped.  
‘Well my mum told me that Santa is a stupid story for spoilt babies who just want presents. And she says that if Jesus died for us then everything wouldn’t still be shitty!’ Bucky shouts, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.  
There is a collective intake of breath, and Bucky deflates. Suddenly he doesn’t look angry and defiant, he just looks sad.  
Mr Collins sends him home with a note about bad language and informs all the parents of the ‘incident’.  
You’re sullen on the walk back home.  
Your mum looks at you with a sigh as you sit at the kitchen table with your hat next to you.  
‘Is Santa really real?’ you ask.  
She looks at you imploringly. ‘He is if you believe, sweetheart.’  
‘What does that mean? Like, he comes if you believe in him? Like the tooth fairy?’  
‘Yes, sweetheart, like that’ your mother answers.  
‘What about God and Jesus?’ you question.  
‘Well I think they do, other people will disagree, or believe in other things. And that’s okay. It’s up to you.’  
You nod, still confused but deciding that if your mum thinks they’re real, they probably are.  
‘So why did Bucky say those things then?’  
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Your mum says, coming to sit across from you. She places her hand on top of yours and smiles softly, tiredly, a smile that is full of love ‘You have to understand, darling, that Bucky’s life is very different to yours. He wasn’t angry at you when he said them, he was upset.’  
‘Why? Because he doesn’t get Santa?’ you ask. You think you would be pretty upset if you didn’t get Santa.  
‘Partly, yes.’ Your mum says ‘Also I think he was a little bit jealous. He didn’t have any tinsel, because his mummy didn’t get him any, and that made him sad. You have to understand, sweetheart, that Jamie and his mummy and daddy, like lots of other kids, aren’t as close as you and me. Bucky probably wants that, and the tinsel just demonstrated to him that he didn’t have it, and that made him sad. It’s not his fault, darling, don’t be angry at Bucky.’  
You nod, feeling sad, and resolve to make amends at the park tomorrow. Your mum helps you make a card for him, and you want to take it right away, but she doesn’t like you crossing the estate in the dark, even just to Bucky’s around the corner.  
When he arrives at the park the next day, Bucky is sporting two black eyes and a slight limp. He says he walked into the door again.  
He doesn’t want to talk about Santa, or God, or Jesus.  
You give him the card. It has a love heart and a big snowman on it, but no Santa.  
Inside it says;  
‘I’m Sorry Bucky.  
Happy Christmas. I love you.  
From Steve.’  
Bucky almost smiles, then quickly shuts it, letting the expression drop.  
‘You don’t really love me, Steve. Don’t be stupid.’  
‘Yes, I do!’ You cry indignantly ‘You’re my BEST friend!’  
He smiles slightly and shakes his head in disbelief, but he’s careful as he tucks the card away.  
He’s quiet for the rest of the day and keeps looking at you, almost wistfully.  
You ask your mum of you made him sad, but she just shakes her head and hugs you tight.

It isn’t until this moment, nearly ten years later, that you realise what that look meant. You wonder, if you’d been persistent, if you’d insisted that he listen to you, insisted that you really did love him, would things have ended up any differently?


	32. A Beautiful Indifference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter what universe they're in, I think Tony and Bucky will always fight over parents.  
> Also, Bucky begins to realise the bottom of the rabbit hole is looming closer than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you DarkRepose for your lovely reviews, and for the Birthday wishes! I didn't realise anyone read the chapter notes!  
> The obvious warning for drug use, and also allusions to child abuse.

A Beautiful Indifference

Your foot slips slightly on the railing as you attempt to lift yourself up through the window. It’s wet with rain and totally unsafe, but your freezing and soaked through, and you figure at this point health and safety have kind of taken a back seat in your life to, you know, heroin.  
You manage to grasp the ledge of the third-floor window, the only one in the building not boarded up. You scramble up the side, arms shaking with exertion, and brick crumbling under your feet. It takes about 5 minutes for you to hall yourself up.  
It’s not a particularly safe place, you know, but it’s the only place you can think of that’s warm and dry, and empty. You’ve been coming here for years with the ‘sesh squad’ as you used to call yourselves (pathetic, you know). You simply called it ‘The Quay’ because it was by the quay (yes, you had great imaginations). The building was some sort of old warehouse and had stood empty for years. There were random holes in the floor you had to hop over, no furnishings of any kind, and dust and rubble scattered everywhere, but it was inside at least. There was always the danger of police, but right now you barely cared if you lived or died, never mind get arrested. Besides, your mother once told you it’s easier to get drugs in prison than outside.  
You have no phone or torch, so you jump out of your skin when you here a rustling beside you.  
‘Who’s there?’ you ask, dully.  
‘Barnes?’ I hoarse voice sounds.  
‘Who is it?’ You ask again, now a little confused.  
A light is switched on next to you, and you turn to see Tony sitting there, on a dirty mattress, with a sleeping bag, surrounded by old candy bar wrappers and bottles.  
‘Stark?’ you question. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were staying at your Aunt’s?’  
He shrugs ‘Didn’t work out. Her boyfriend Obadiah didn't much like me.’ He says.  
‘So, you living here now?’  
He nods. ‘Where you been Barnes?’  
You shrug ‘Around.’  
You don’t know why you don’t tell him the truth. Perhaps because it makes it too real. You always told yourself you could stop all this at any point, but here you are. You’ve used up your second chance, and you won’t get another. It’s no longer a stupid, teenage mistake. It’s becoming what you’ve always promised yourself it never would; a problem. Or perhaps it always was a problem, and you’ve just never been able to admit it.  
Tony just nods, accepting, uncaring.  
You sit down next to him, and he glances at you as he pulls out silver foil, a lighter, his kit.  
Your skin prickles in anticipation as he gestures at you. You nod, eagerly.  
‘A reunion gift.’ He says with a lopsided, lazy smile. ‘You better return the favour.’  
You nod again as you watch him take the hit. It’s fascinating to see someone else do it, to physically see all the worry and pain melt away from his face, replaced by a mask of beautiful indifference. You didn’t realise it was so obvious.  
You take your hit, and a sigh leaves your body, taking all of your cares with it, as the drug enters your bloodstream. You’re no longer cold, no longer wet, and uncomfortable, no longer scared and lost, and this? This is no longer a problem.  
*****************  
The solution fails, and your problems return shortly. You’re cold again, and your clothes are itchy and damp. Worst of all, you’re low on heroin. You already want your next hit, and you know it’s going to be more difficult to find it in this weather. You look at Tony and can tell he’s thinking the same thing.  
‘How much you got?’ He asks.  
‘Not enough.’ You reply.  
‘Well, you owe me, man. No offense. So, I think you should go get more or give me yours.’  
‘Fuck you, man.’ You say, ‘No fucking way.’  
‘Hey, you said you’d pay me back.’ He says angrily.  
‘Yeah not straight afterwards, that’s not how a gift works mate.’  
‘Yeah? How would you know, not like your whore mother ever brought you a present!’ He shouts.  
‘Don’t you fucking talk about my mother, you cunt!’ And if your family is SO PERFECT, then why are you goddamn HOMELESS, huh?’ You stagger slightly as you rise to your feet, and Tony mirrors you, staggering too.  
You both sway lightly on the spot, and it takes a moment for the world to set itself back on its axis.  
The moment you’ve recovered though, you swing, putting all the force you can behind it. Your fist connects with Tony’s face and he reels back, scowling. He makes a swipe at you and your too dizzy to dodge. It sends you careening into the wall.  
You shove him and kick him hard in the shin. He loses his footing and trips, landing hard. He grabs your legs and shoves forward, causing you to fall too.  
You both lie there in the dust, breathing heavily. Then you look at each other, and the situation catches up with you. You’re both numb, despite knowing you should be in pain. You’re both more concerned about the next hit of heroin than you are about the hits you just dished out to each other.  
You realise you are fighting the only person you know who could possibly understand you.  
You shove him off and get up, he does too, warily backing away.  
‘I’ll go.’ You say.  
He nods sharply.  
‘Sorry.’ You begin ‘I- ‘  
‘It’s calm.’ He cuts you off. ‘I’m sorry too.’  
You look at each other, and it occurs to you that he is as scared as you are. You never wanted to end up like your parents, but you just hit a guy over heroin. You just hit a friend over heroin. You are both spiralling out of control, and you know it. You silently acknowledge it as you stare at each other, at the blood dripping from his nose, and your temple, at your ragged appearances, like the living dead.  
You pick up your bag, hating that you don’t trust him not to steal all you have. Hating that your concern is valid. Hating that you know you’d steal his stuff, if he left it, too.  
‘I’ll be quick’ you say. What you mean is ‘I’m as desperate as you are.’  
‘I know.’ He says What he means is ‘I trust you want shelter and company enough to come back at all.’  
You scramble out the window again, willing to brave the rain and the cold, to once again feel that beautiful indifference.


	34. The Truth of my Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it worse to fall alone, or to drag someone down with you?

The Truth of my Youth 

The air is thick with smoke and sweat. The anticipation is so thick you can taste it, buzzing like electricity, dancing across your tongue. Tony is trembling, he is not as numbed to the world as you yet. He’ll get there.   
Brock’s leering grin makes even you shudder slightly as he towers over you, a gloating glee painted clear all over his face. What was once a rugged handsomeness now just seems twisted and cruel.  
Your stomach is lined with lead.  
‘You dance?’ He asks.  
You shake your head, Tony remains statue still.  
‘You do now.’  
*****************  
The crowd cheers sickeningly as you dance, naked bodies pressed against each other. Your butts smack together as you crouch on all fours. Someone’s hands wrap around your waist and you allow them to straddle you, riding you like a horse. Your small weight nearly buckles, but it holds. You grit your teeth, swallowing down the burning shame. You won’t give them the satisfaction.   
You allow yourself to get lost in your mind. You are underwater. The current spirals around you pulling you this way and that like a dance. A seahorse bobs past and you run your fingers along its back. A tiny octopus wraps its tentacles lightly around you like a hug –  
And suddenly you’re back, cheek stinging from a sharp slap, and surrounded by an unnerving quiet.  
Your eyes meet Brock’s and you see cold fury there. You don’t shudder though; there’s little he can do to you now.  
You turn around and notice for the first time that Tony is standing up, arms wrapped tightly around his torso.   
‘What?’ You growl out, irritated. You just want to get this done and get your heroin, no fuss about it.  
‘This wasn’t part of the deal.’ Tony’s voice shakes as he speaks. ‘I can’t do this Bucky.’  
You stare at him in shock, your brain frozen. You just don’t understand. Doesn’t heroin mean more to him than the few last shreds of his dignity? Doesn’t it mean everything?  
‘I’m sorry.’ He says, strained.  
You don’t say anything as he grabs his clothes, don’t say anything as he re-dresses. You don’t say anything until he reaches the door, about to leave.  
‘Fuck you!’ You shout.  
He pauses and turns around to face you.  
‘You fucking pussy’ you add.  
He laughs incredulously. ‘No you’re the pussy, Barnes. You had the chance to get clean and you couldn’t do it, you coward. You couldn’t face the world without heroin to numb it. I’m gonna get clean, and it will be because of you showing me just how goddamned pathetic I’ve become. So thanks for that.’  
You watch him go, his words leaving you with a strange, churning sensation in your stomach. You’re angry, but deep down you know you’re really angry at yourself because he’s right. You push it down.  
Brock comes to stand above your still crouched form.  
‘Well, what are you gonna do now, brat?’  
Suddenly you’re not scared, your anger drives you.  
‘Fuck you too.’ You say.  
Brock growls. ‘I’ll kill you, you bitch.’ He grabs your arm and yanks you up roughly. His hand fits right around your bicep.  
‘Go for it.’ You say passively.  
He shoves you against the wall so hard your feet leave the ground.  
‘I’ll burn your fucking whore mother live and make you watch.’ He growls, leaning in. The scent of stale beer fills your nostrils.  
‘Yeah, go for it.’ You say again ‘You’ll have to dig her up first though, cause she’s been dead for years. You could burn my Dad if you want, but he doesn’t give a fuck about me, and I don’t give a fuck about him. I’d be playing flappy bird on my phone whilst he screamed. I’d be more upset if you burnt my weed dealer, cause then I’d have to find a new one, and that would be bear effort.’  
You smirk as Brock’s face turns an ugly puce. He’s practically snarling now as he drops you roughly and drags you upstairs, and you know you’re in trouble, know he’s going to make you scream, but you don’t care about that, you’re just worried he won’t give you the heroin. Fuck you and your big mouth.  
You’re right. He thrusts into you dry and fast, hands grabbing, and nails scratching at your pale flesh. You have to bite your lip so hard to stop from screaming that your mouth fills with coppery blood.   
You lie there and take it, as he sends in friend after friend to violate you, each more painful than the last. By the third, you can’t even hold yourself up. You lie on the bed, face pressed into the pillow and silent tears running down your cheeks. You don’t even have the energy to cry properly.  
You’re tried and tested technique of ‘going underwater’ fails you, as the larger man cruelly thrusts into you, and you’re left thinking ‘it’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it.’ Over and over.  
You just focus on the sweet relief of heroin.


	35. And it All Began With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve are falling separately, but together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT! Warning for graphic descriptions of self-harm ahead, and mentions of prostitution, and (obviously) drug use.  
> **** Two in a row! I posted this because I think it's quite an important chapter. I've had my fair share of experience with drug addiction, and I want to make this story as realistic as possible. I know it's different for everyone but I definitely want this to be a cautionary tale. I guess the aim is to show the harrowing reality of drug addiction, and how it affects everyone in your life, rather than this glamorised, movie version. It's really difficult to get across just how damaging drugs can be, but I'm trying. If it's not working, or if it is let me know!  
> Also, I hate it when authors do this cause it always seems fake, but genuinely, if anyone relates to this story, and wants to talk about any of the issues featured, feel free to get in touch, some of this is based on experience, and it'd be good to know if anyone else finds its relatable/helpful/even unhelpful in any way ****

And it All Began With You 

You can sense the moment you hit rock bottom (because in spite of everything you weren’t quite there before).  
You really crash and burn the moment you start to miss Brock. The faces, the names, the dicks of the men you fuck become a blur, each harsher and more painful than the last, and as days become weeks you long what you had with Brock, violent and merciless, but meaningful in some twisted way. This cold fucking of strangers, who treat you like an object, a toy to play with and throw money at, makes you ache in places you didn’t even know existed. You are no longer an object of desire; something to want, to enjoy. You have become a convenient option. And that is what hurts the most.  
You have a routine now; noises to make, images to replay, ways to force yourself to cum for men you don’t even see anymore. Sex has become some kind of dirty habit; each time you know it is wrong, you know what you are doing is sick, but you continue to do it anyway, you don’t even try to break it. The dick inside you doesn’t make you cum anymore, it’s all to mechanical. It is all in your head. You used to think of Steve, but you hate tainting something so pure; he has to remain untouched by this lifestyle, the only clean thing left. You think perhaps that is dangerous. From a therapy perspective; you are holding him up as some sort of God. You don’t care.  
You don’t think you will ever be able to really enjoy sex again, which is a shame, seeing as you’ve never even done it with someone you loved.  
You didn’t love Brock, you have come to realise. You thought you did. But he too was convenient for you. You wanted love, wanted to be wanted, and he came along right on time, so you tried to fit a mould of love on top of him, but love can’t be warped to fit a person, a person, one day, will come along who just fits.  
Your person could have been Steve, but unfortunately, you were not his, and you know no one else is Steve’s shape; no one else will fit your mould. You are destined to be unloved.  
Somehow that makes everything easier.  
*****************  
Steve’s P.O.V

Everything hurts now Bucky is gone. It’s never felt so final up till now. He is nowhere, yet everywhere.  
You know your mum wants you to move on with your life. You know it’s stupid to pine after a heroin addict who can never love you back, but you’re stuck on him. You could be anything now, but you still just want to be his.  
You’re tearing your own heart out and stomping on it, you know that, but nothing has ever felt so right.  
But life does not stop for anyone or anything, not even love. Eventually, it drags you up. Eventually, you realise that the person you were missing hasn’t existed for a long time.  
(You don’t realise that both of you are missing each other at the same time, you don’t realise you are lonely together.)  
You apply to university. You get an offer from University College London to study art. You accept it. Your life continues to turn around, and around like a wheel. It’s almost mechanical now, like a routine. You get up (miss Bucky), get dressed (miss Bucky), go to college (miss Bucky), go home (miss Bucky), do homework (miss Bucky), go to sleep (miss Bucky), and repeat.  
Each day, each sketch becomes a blur and you walk around with a hole in your heart and a smile on your face. There has to be a point, you realise when you stop choosing other people (Bucky) and start choosing yourself. You just don’t know when that point will be.  
You stare at the photo on your desk; you and Bucky, 12 years old and laughing, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. You look like typical council estate kids in your Adidas windbreakers, sweatpants, and football caps, you look like typical kids.  
‘Was it worth it, Buck?’ you mutter ‘Was it fucking worth all this? Were drugs worth our friendship? Were they worth your smile? Were they worth your whole life?’  
Picture-Bucky doesn’t reply. He remains, frozen in time, in happiness. You can’t help your eyes fill with tears. You wonder if Bucky ever looks beyond himself, and thinks about how much he is hurting other people, how much he is hurting you.  
You open your draw and slowly pull out the silver razor that Bucky had left here when he left you. You slide it slowly across the pad of your thumb and watch it fill with blood.  
‘Fuck you, Bucky.’ You mutter.  
You roll up your sweater sleeve and stare at the small red lines that mar the usually pale, smooth skin. You picture Bucky’s arm that day, covered in old scars and track marks. You draw the blade slowly, lightly at first, across your arm, and as you do so you imagine you’re draining Bucky from your bloodstream, draining all the hurt he caused, all the stress, draining every last trace of him from your life. You go again underneath, pressing harder this time. It stings as the flesh pulls apart. You withdraw the blade and watch the blood bubble to the surface, pooling in areas and dripping in others. You bring up a finger and touch a globule of it, inspecting it closely, twisting this way and that to see how the light catches it. You lick your finger and go again, each time harder than the last. There are seven more when you drop the blade, falling to the floor of your room, silent tears still running down your cheeks.  
Bucky isn’t gone, his ghost is still as present as ever, haunting you, the ghost of your failure, your regret. You bring your knees up to your chest and sob.  
Then you get up (miss Bucky), clean the blood (miss Bucky), hide the blade (miss Bucky), wipe your tears (miss Bucky), cover the cuts (miss Bucky), and wait for day to begin anew (miss Bucky, miss Bucky, miss Bucky.)


End file.
